Diamond (Diamond Trilogy 1)

‘Hello, God, I’m sorry, I forgot it was before nine, have I disturbed you?’

‘No, no.’ But he sounded as if he was still in bed, with that thick, slightly drugged tone to his voice. ‘Sorry, who?’

‘Jenna. Jenna Myatt, the new owner of the Hall.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, forgive me. Brain hasn’t kicked into gear yet. More coffee needed, I think. What can I do for you, Jenna? Is everything all right up there?’

‘Oh, fine, I think. Just wanted to ask you about the attic space.’

‘The attic?’

‘I don’t remember looking around up there. Is it boarded? Insulated? Is there a step ladder anywhere so I can go up and look around?’

‘The attic? You know, I really couldn’t say. I don’t think I’ve been up there in my life. It used to be servants’ quarters, years ago, so I suppose it’s got flooring.’

‘It’s just there were … funny noises. They seemed to come from there.’

‘Oh, dear. How unnerving. I hope they didn’t keep you awake all night.’

‘No, no.’ Jenna wondered why she needed to give the impression that strange noises in a strange house in the dead of night when completely alone were no big deal. His voice, alone, seemed to make everything all right, and convince her that she had been fussing over nothing. ‘But I did want to check. Could be a family of squirrels or anything.’

‘Squirrels! They’d be company for you. Must have been rather lonely in that rattling old place on your own.’

‘Well …’

‘Listen, would you like to meet up for lunch? There’s nowhere much in Bledburn itself, but some smashing country pubs in the area.’

Jenna didn’t want to bite his hand off but she couldn’t keep a note of almost hysterical relief from her voice when she said, ‘That might be nice – thank you.’

‘Shall I pick you up at twelve?’

‘Perfect.’

Lunch, then London, she thought. The attic could go fuck itself, along with the whole of Bledburn.

She put on socks and boots and climbed the stairs to the first floor, walking through each of the bedrooms in turn. Her visions for the rooms came back to her and she began to regret that she would never see them transformed. She had been full of plans. Renovate the house then turn it into an exclusive boutique hotel and five-star restaurant. Put Bledburn on the map. Perhaps make it the first of a chain, buy other property in the Nottingham and Sheffield areas.

She looked up at the ceiling, but she couldn’t see a hatch or any obvious access point. There was clearly a room, or rooms, up there, but how the dickens did one access them?

But, then again, she didn’t want to. It was pointless, after all. She was going to go downstairs and call the agent.

She could hear the chirrup of her phone from the parlour. Probably one of the offices, unable to cope without her, already. It was a strangely cheering thought, and she headed back to the stairs. But before she could take the first step, a huge clatter from overhead was succeeded by what sounded like a cry of pain.

A voice. It sounded very like a human voice, or that of an animal that counterfeited human voices exceptionally well. An adult male voice.

She could run down to the phone, but instead she ran back until she was standing beneath the ceiling and shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ Instead of fear, she felt a sudden and growing outrage that somebody was in her house, ruining her sleep and her nerves. That somebody needed to know who he was dealing with. He needed to know that she was furiously angry with him.

There was no reply, so she shouted again. ‘Who’s there? Answer me or I go straight to the police.’

Again, silence. The clatter and cry had been accompanied, now she thought about it, by a huge thud. Perhaps whoever it was was hurt. Or perhaps he was lying in wait for her, and when she went downstairs he’d creep out, find her and clobber her.

She had to call the police. It was the only option. Whoever it was had no business there – probably just some old tramp with nowhere else to shelter, but all the same, she wasn’t the Salvation bloody Army, was she? There was a hostel in Bledburn, surely.

She was on her way to the stairs yet again when she was surprised by the unmistakable miaow of a cat. There was a cat up there! Was it possible that the cry had been of an animal? Sometimes she had heard cats making the most remarkable noises, like children crying. That was it. Relief showered down upon her, drenching her. It was just a silly cat, or cats. Maybe kittens.

They couldn’t stay there – they’d starve. She would have to let them out.

She began a close examination of the landing, thinking as she did of Lawrence’s assertion that he had never been in the attic. Well, clearly someone had, or how had the cat got up there? Perhaps the estate agent or the surveyor?