Shelter, page 6
“You lucky cow!”
“I haven’t accepted yet.”
“But you will?”
“I don’t know. I said I’d call him.”
“Laura, listen to me. You put this damn phone down straightaway, and you call Richard Charteris and tell him you’ll be delighted to come for drinks on Friday. Good God, girl, are you mad? Invitations like this don’t fall into your lap every day, and when they do, you grab them with both hands and you don’t let go. Richard inherits the lot when Catherine—”
“Maggie! That’s enough. I still don’t know,” Laura said, but found herself warming to the subject and spent the rest of the conversation with Maggie discussing it.
When she switched off the phone she was feeling brighter than she had all day. She could always rely on Maggie to make her see the silver lining on the most thunderously gray clouds. She made herself a coffee, laced liberally with Tia Maria, switched on the CD player, and let the soothing music of Adiemus lull her into a state of total relaxation. It had been an awful day. Tomorrow could only be better.
The sound of a heavy motor being started woke her from a deep and dream-free sleep. She looked at the clock on the wall and swore. Nine thirty. She should have been up two hours ago. She crawled out of bed, groaning at the nagging headache that beat a tattoo behind her eyes, and swore for the umpteenth time never to touch liqueur coffee again. She pulled back the curtain.
The site was busy. Scaffolders had arrived and were busy erecting a steel exoskeleton around the house; several of Shaun’s team were engaged in tearing down the toilet at the end of the garden, and Shaun himself was laying out a thick rubber pipe that led to a large water pump. The other hose from the pump was already snaking its way down into the recently exposed pit in the ground.
She threw on her jeans, pulled a jumper over her head, and slipped her feet into a pair of Reeboks. She brushed her teeth quickly, ran her hand through her hair, and went out to face the day.
“I’ve run the hose from the pump down to the drainage ditch at the end of the garden,” Shaun told her when she inquired about his progress. “This beast shifts a lot of water very quickly, so hopefully we should have the place drained within a couple of hours.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to move so quickly on this,” she said. She was impressed with his speed.
“Imperative,” Shaun said. “We have to find out what exactly is going on down there. We don’t want a repeat of yesterday. Luckily I have a mate who had the pump. He brought it round last night.”
“I’ll leave you to it. No sign of Dean this morning?”
Shaun shook his head. “Haven’t heard a word,” he said.
“I’ll put my face on, and then I’ll pay him a visit.”
Shaun arched his eyebrow. “You sure?”
“I don’t see I have any choice in the matter.”
She had no choice, but she was dreading the encounter.
Dean McMillan lived on a council estate on the fringes of Bridport. Most of the houses were now privately owned, as the diversity of double-glazed windows and UPVC doors bore witness. Not so the McMillan house. The front door was still a dull Corporation blue, and the paint on the aluminum windows was yellowing and peeling. A child’s tricycle was lying on its side on the scrubby front lawn, and there was a sticker of a German shepherd dog stuck to the front door bearing the legend i live here! As a warning to would-be burglars. Though the implication was that it served as a warning to keep anybody and everybody out.
Laura knocked on the door and waited. An ice cream van pulled into the street, its cacophonous chimes playing a murderous rendition of “Green-sleeves.” The front door burst open and a small boy, no more than eight, rushed past her, clutching a five-pound note in his grubby hand, and ran across to where the ice cream van was waiting.
Laura waited for a few moments more, then stepped inside and called, “Hello.”
The hallway was cluttered with children’s toys and a bookcase chockablock with cycling magazines and paperback western novels, with the occasional Stephen King and Dean Koontz to add variety.
Laura called out again, and this time the call was answered. A woman’s voice called back from somewhere deep in the house. “In the kitchen, come on through.”
Laura followed the voice through to the back. She pushed open a door and found herself in an untidy kitchen. A young woman was on her knees in front of an ancient washing machine, mopping up a large puddle of gray soapy water. “Bloody thing’s always leaking,” she said, then glanced round at Laura, her eyes widening in surprise. “Who the hell are you? I thought you were the health visitor. She always comes on Tuesday morning. Jamie has asthma.”
Laura stepped forward and held out her hand. “Laura Craig. Your husband works for me.”
The other woman peeled off her rubber gloves with a snap and threw them into the cluttered sink, but ignored Laura’s outstretched hand. “Used to work for you,” she said. “There’s no way he’s coming back to that place. Bloody death trap. You should have seen the state of him when he came home yesterday.” The woman’s badly highlighted hair was piled high on top of her head like a pineapple. A scraggly, greasy fringe hung down past her eyes. She pushed it away from her face with the back of her hand. “I’ll be seeing our solicitor about it, that’s for sure.”
Laura doubted the couple actually had a solicitor, but she let it ride. “Mrs. McMillan, I agree it was an unfortunate accident, but I’m sure we can settle this without involving lawyers. I’ve already taken advice and there doesn’t seem to be much of a claim.” The last was just Maggie’s opinion, but the woman wasn’t to know that. “If I could have a word with Dean I’m sure we can settle the matter here and now.”
The woman frowned suspiciously. She reminded Laura of a pig, pale eyelashes framing watery blue eyes. Her body was slipping into pig shape as well, and fat would soon be her natural self if she didn’t take care.
“If I could see Dean?”
The frown deepened but eventually she seemed to reach a decision. “All right. He’s in the lounge, though whether or not he’ll speak to you is another matter. He certainly isn’t speaking to me.” She pointed through the kitchen door to the small hallway. “That door there.”
Laura thanked her and walked through to the hall, glad to be out of the woman’s company. She knocked on the lounge door.
“Just go in,” Mrs. McMillan called out. “It’s not locked,” then laughed as if she’d just made the joke of the century.
Dean McMillan was sprawled out on a cheap settee, watching a daytime soap opera on an expensive wide-screen TV. He didn’t look away from the set as Laura entered the room.
“Hello, Dean,” she said. “How are you feeling now?”
McMillan said nothing but picked up the remote and increased the volume on the set.
There were two other chairs in the room. Neither of them matched the settee or each other; both were crowded with old magazines and on one a pair of muddy football boots. She perched on the arm of the least cluttered chair. “Can we talk?”
“Nothing to talk about,” McMillan grunted.
At least it was a start.
“About what happened yesterday. It was a complete accident, you know? There was nothing in the deeds to tell us there was anything under the outbuilding. Nothing at all.”
“Perhaps you should have checked harder,” he said, his eyes still not leaving the exploits of an emotionally retarded Australian family.
“There was no way we could have known. I’m sure it must have been a shock to you—”
He laughed harshly. “A shock? Plunging into some filthy cesspit? You bet it was a shock. I could have died . . . and when it grabbed my leg . . .” His face paled and she noticed the hand holding the remote control was shaking slightly.
“That’s what you said yesterday, but the hole must have been covered up for years. How could there have been anything down there? Perhaps you snagged your foot on something. Perhaps the shock of falling made you imagine something grabbed you.”
For the first time he looked at her, and his eyes still carried the expression of dread and terror she’d seen in them yesterday.
“So I imagined it, did I?” He dropped the remote onto the cushion beside him and leaned forward, rolling up the leg of his tracksuit bottoms. “Then how do you explain this?”
Laura leaned forward to look at McMillan’s leg and winced. Encircling his ankle was an ugly red weal, the center of it deep crimson, the sides puckered and blistered. “Have you seen a doctor about that? It looks nasty. There could be a chance of infection.”
“What did you do, come round to cheer me up?” He laughed bitterly. “I’ll tell you what you can do. You can go back to that bloody site and wait for my solicitor’s letter. Jen’s going into town later. She’s made an appointment.”
Jen, she supposed, was his wife. “I’ve just been speaking to her and I’ll tell you what I told her. If we involve the law, the only people who’ll benefit are the lawyers, and neither of us want or can afford that.” She reached into her jacket pocket and brought out her checkbook. “I appreciate that were it not for the accident you would have been working for the duration of the build. I’m willing to pay you the money you would have earned during that time.”
“Very generous,” McMillan said sourly. “Thanks but no, thanks. I reckon we can squeeze you till your pips squeak. I could close down that site, you know? Then where will you be?”
Laura took a deep breath. She could feel her hackles rising. Perhaps Shaun was right and it wasn’t such a great idea coming here.
McMillan said, “Of course, if there was more money on the table, then I might be inclined to reconsider.”
So that was what it came down to. “Had you a figure in mind?”
“A thousand,” his wife said from the doorway. Laura had no idea how long she’d been standing there. Laura glanced around at her and saw the cold, calculating look in the woman’s eyes. McMillan had gone back to watching the television. “A thousand,” his wife repeated. “Plus what he would have earned on the job.”
“Mrs. McMillan . . .” Laura began, then shrugged and got to her feet, dropping her checkbook back in her bag. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t do blackmail.” She turned on her heel and walked past the woman in the doorway, noting with satisfaction the vague look of panic in her eyes. “Call me when you’re ready to accept my offer. Oh, and I really would get that leg seen to before it becomes infected. I’ll see myself out.”
She closed the front door. The McMillans’ son was standing in the front garden, licking at an ice cream cornet. He didn’t even glance at her as she walked past him to her car.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She arrived back at the site early in the afternoon and sought out Shaun. He was up in one of the bedrooms laying some new floorboards to replace the wood-worm ravaged ones that presented a serious safety hazard. Bent over an electric saw, he was cutting a board to size. As Laura entered the room he switched off the machine, bringing an almost preternatural silence to the room. “Well?” he said, breaking the silence. “How did it go?” A light covering of sawdust coated his hair.
She told him quickly, describing in detail what she would like to do to Jennifer McMillan.
He raised his eyebrows at the violence of her language. “I did warn you,” he said.
“I know. Why are people so unreasonable?” she said. Her anger was on different levels; the turning up of the volume on the TV as annoying on a human level as the threat of lawsuits was on the business side.
“Human nature, I’m afraid. We’re getting as bad as America. Everyone thinks litigation first and compromise second. Still,” Shaun added, laying the sawn floorboard on the workbench. “It’s not all bad news. I’ve cleared the water out of the hole.”
“Thank heavens for that. So what’s down there?”
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
All the remnants of the shed had been cleared away, leaving a rectangle of concrete, the exact dimensions of the building. To one end of it was a perfectly square hole in the ground. Lined with wooden lintels, the opening was obviously purpose-made. Shaun stood at the edge of the hole. “There was a wooden trapdoor covering it. It must have been rotten and gave way when Dean stepped on it.”
“But the whole shed collapsed,” Laura said. She could still picture the scene of chaos as the dust overwhelmed everything and everyone.
“I know. I’m still trying to work that one out. Dean was demolishing it, but when I last checked him he hadn’t got very far. He obviously did something to bring the whole lot down, but until I speak to him I won’t know. It was just lucky for him he fell through the trapdoor when he did, otherwise he would have been crushed when the roof caved in. Look, down there.”
Laura followed his pointing finger. Set in the wall was a rusting iron ladder leading down.
Shaun said, “It was covered in weed, but if he’d seen it all he had to do was reach out and he would have found it. He could have climbed out himself and saved me from a soaking.”
“He was in a state of panic,” Laura said fairly. “He wouldn’t have known the ladder was there. I certainly didn’t see it when I looked down.”
Shaun shrugged his wide shoulders. “Maybe. Anyway, come down and have a look.” He climbed down first, beckoning her to follow.
They stood in a brick-lined room about fourteen feet square. Shaun had rigged up two hurricane lamps that lit the place with an orange glow. There was an iron-framed bed standing against the left hand wall, the frame thick with rust and supporting a sodden, rotting mattress. The wooden headboard was swollen and split, veneer peeling from it like sunburnt skin. Against the left-hand wall was a bookcase, the books bloated with water, brown and unwholesome. Thick black weed covered the walls, slimy and sickly looking. The smell was appalling, overpowering—like the smell of a stagnant pond. Laura wrinkled her nose in disgust. But it was the floor of the room that caught her attention. It was flagstoned with puddles of water in the dips and crevices. In the center of it was a circular hole, three feet in diameter. To one side of the hole was a flat square of rusting steel, large enough to cover the hole, and scattered around the steel were a number of heavy concrete blocks.
Shaun had brought a heavy-duty torch with him. He shone it at the hole. “A well,” he said.
“How deep is it?” Laura asked, hanging back, not wishing to venture too close to the circular edge.
“I couldn’t say. I pumped out as much water as I could, but the hose wasn’t long enough to get to the bottom. It must be fed from a spring, and a pretty powerful one at that. It’s already filling up again. But this isn’t the source of the flood. Like all wells the surface of water must level out naturally at the height of the water table. It’s impossible for it to rise any higher than that. So my guess is the room was flooded deliberately.”
“But why?” The thought of a carefully constructed area belowground such as this being built, and then filled with water, made no sense to Laura.
He shrugged. “Who knows?” He walked across to it and shone his torch down. Reluctantly she moved forward and stood next to him. She peered down. As Shaun swung the torch she could see the beam reflected on the surface of the water a few feet below.
“Is this good news or bad news?” she said. Her voice was echoing eerily from the walls.
“For you, only good. The spring must be so far down that, even if it runs directly under the house, it wouldn’t present any problems.”
Laura looked from the wellhead to the bookcase, to the bed. “It looks as if someone spent quite a lot of time down here. Extraordinary. Who would want to sleep down here in this dingy room when there’s a perfectly good house above?”
“Search me,” Shaun said. “But look at the walls, the bricks.”
The black weed stopped three-quarters of the way up the walls. Above it the bricks were clearly visible. She stared at them, but didn’t know what she was meant to be seeing, and said so.
“That’s because you’re not a builder. But I would say those bricks are more than four hundred years old. So this place, this cellar or whatever it is, has been here quite a time, a lot longer than the house. I’d like to check back in the records to find out what stood on this site before the house went up. But I suspect that a much larger, grander place stood here. I figure this would have been the cellar and the house was built over the well to provide the occupants with fresh water. From an archaeological point of view this place is quite a find.” He shone the torch at the ceiling. “Concrete—the base of the shed—much later. I suspect the original ceiling was wood. Just as I suspect there are other rooms connected to this one. This could only have been a part of the whole thing.”
Laura moved back toward the ladder and the pool of daylight that was pouring down from the opening. She needed to feel the sunlight on her skin again. There was something not quite right about the cellar, but she couldn’t identify quite what it was. The damp and cold had seeped through her clothes, chilling her to the bone. She shivered.
“Not very pleasant down here, is it?” Shaun said.
“No, not at all.” She reached out and with her finger she prodded the weed clinging to the bricks. It sank in up to the first joint. She withdrew it quickly. “Disgusting,” she said. “This is where the smell is coming from. This weed. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Come on,” she said, moving back to the ladder. “Let’s go back to the house and decide what we’re going to do about it.” She climbed the ladder quickly, drawing in a deep breath of fresh air. She couldn’t really explain it to Shaun, but she’d been very uncomfortable down there. The subterranean hole had a grim, oppressive atmosphere—an atmosphere that made her skin crawl. She was relieved to be back aboveground.
Later she telephoned Dunbar Court to confirm she’d be there on Friday. There was nobody but the butler to take her call, but he assured her he’d pass the message on.
She left the site and drove into Dorchester to find something to wear. She wasn’t sure whether or not the evening would be formal or casual, but either way her usual attire of jeans and sweatshirt would be unsuitable.
