Nightrise by Jim Kelly Page B

wood – the aroma of resin, because they’d only ever had rugs at Burnt Fen, laid over the boards or the quarry tiles, and the flat had polished boards and rugs too. So no carpets, no soft furnishings and no air fresheners. But there was no hint of that here. The house smelt empty, neutral, inert. In fact, now that he thought about it, it smelt antiseptic.
    The downstairs rooms were uniformly dull. The property had been rented and was a symphony in beige. Second-hand furniture, generic, tasteless art on the walls. And that was right too, because his father hadn’t noticed when his mother had given away a print of Constable’s
Hay Wain
which had hung over the fireplace for a decade. The state of repair – efficient, but not loving – suggested a maintenance contract. There were no books to see but a pile of newspapers – several different nationals plus the local evening paper from Cambridge. All of them were open at the puzzle page.
    One oddity – there was an internal window between the kitchen and main room and it had been replaced with a stained-glass window. Dryden looked at it for some time trying to work out what was so strange. It was a grid – eight by eight, like a chess board. Each square was one of eight colours. Each line only contained one of each colour – however you ‘read’ it – up or down, side to side. Clever, mildly disquieting, like a puzzle. Sudoku with colours.
    And then there was the kitchen – fitted, a German company, quality. And it was crammed with gadgets, tin-openers, mixers, an iPod dock and a flat-screen TV.
    â€˜Liked his toys,’ said Humph.
    A bottle of beer – Hoegaarden – stood empty on the table. Dryden’s father had liked beer, and almost always had a bottle with his evening meal. And he was no Little Englander – so why not a Belgian beer? There were no family or personal pictures on the walls or mantelpiece. If he was indoors, and his father hated being indoors, he’d always had eyes only for the windows. So no curtains except heavy drapes for winter. And that was what was unusual about this house – no net curtains. Everyone on the Jubilee had net curtains.
    In the hallway was a notice board with various cards and flyers and a calendar all held in place by red-topped drawing pins. Dryden felt something crunch under his foot and looking down saw two of the pins in the pile of the carpet, which was odd because everywhere else seemed freshly hovered. He moved his finger over some of the flyers: night classes at the college, The Peking’s home delivery service, Live Music at The Red, White and Blue – an academic calendar for Ely College.
    He eased one of the drawing pins out of a card. ‘They weren’t looking very hard, were they – the plods.’ Underneath the flyer was another, smaller, flyer which had been held up by the same pin.
    Ely Singles Club: Divorced or Separated? Ring us, or join us, every Friday evening at The Red, White and Blue.  5 includes first drink and sandwiches.
    He handed Humph the card. ‘You might need that.’
    Humph popped the card in his back pocket, standing at the foot of the stairs and turning 360 degrees.
    â€˜I’ll check upstairs,’ said Dryden. ‘You try the kitchen and the yard.’
    There was a small hallway at the top of the flight of stairs and the doors to the two bedrooms and the bathroom. Dryden stood for a second thinking it was incredible that someone could live somewhere for six years and leave so little of themselves behind.
    He’d clearly slept in the box room. The bed was crumpled, like a nest, with a bedside table and a radio alarm. Dryden hit the PLAY button expecting to hear Radio Four – his parents had listened to nothing else, from
Farming Today
until the
Shipping Forecast
. But it was Star Radio – the local commercial station. Dryden killed the signal. That wasn’t right.
    The bathroom