(1990) Sweet Heart by Peter James Read Free Book Online Page B

There was a faintly unpleasant smell of something decomposing. It was hot and uncannily quiet. The only sound was the sharp ping … ping … ping of a single drop of water every half second on to something metallic. The room was empty, the boxes of junk under dust sheets had been cleared out. She walked across to the window, the hardboard floor sagging then springing back into place with a dull
boomf
, shedding small eddies of dust into the air.
    Most dust came from human skin.
    Weird. Weird thoughts coming into her head. Maybe it was part of moving. Moving was the second biggest trauma of married life. Or third. Something like that, Tom had told her.
    There was a fine view out of the window over the lake and beyond. Maybe a couple of miles across the woods and down the valley on the far side, were the roof and chimneys of a large house.
    It was going to be OK. Tom was right. It was beautiful here. Beautiful and peaceful.
    A shadow moved across the wall, as if someone had walked behind her. She turned, but the attic was empty. It must have been a bird passing the window, she thought. Except the shadow had come from a differentdirection. She felt a prickle of unease and stepped to the left, then right, to see if the shadow could have been from herself.
    A rattle above her head, like dice, startled her, then she heard the chirp of a bird. A man shouted, his voice faint. Another replied.
    Boomf
.
    She looked round as the floorboard made a sound as if someone had trodden on it. Probably just springing back into place after she had walked over it, she realised, but she left the attic quickly.
    As she went on to the first floor landing a thud echoed around the house. It was followed by several more in rapid succession.
    Door knocker.
    She hurried down the stairs. A tall man was standing at the front door wearing grimy overalls over a frayed collar and a ragged tie. He was in his early forties, she guessed. He had an unkempt beard and there were streaks of grease on his high gaunt cheeks. His straw hair looked as if it had been battered by a hurricane. She liked his face instantly. It had both a salt-of-the-earth trustworthiness and a hint of fiery nobility that reminded her of Russian aristocracy. His eyes were sharp, penetrating, but warmth and a hint of mischief danced in them like winter sun.
    ‘I’m Hugh Boxer, your neighbour from up the lane. Thought I’d pop by and say hallo.’ His voice was easy and cultured.
    She held out her hand. ‘Charley Witney.’
    He wiped his grimy paw of a hand down his trouser leg and shook hers with a solid, positive grip. ‘Welcome to the lane.’
    ‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘Which is your house?’
    ‘The barn. Thadwell’s Barn.’
    ‘With the old cars?’
    His eyebrows were like miniature bales of straw, and his face crinkled as he smiled back. ‘Some people in the country breed animals — I prefer cars. They don’t need milking.’
    She laughed. ‘I think the barn — house — looks great.’
    ‘Not bad for a cowshed, is it? Actually, the other thing I came to see you about was the car. I wondered if it would be OK to leave it for a day or two.’
    ‘The car? I’m not with you, I’m afraid,’ Charley said.
    ‘Nancy Delvine’s old Triumph Roadster. I bought it from the estate. It’s in the barn, behind the straw bales.’
    ‘I didn’t know there was a car there. Is it something very rare?’
    The removals men were unloading a sofa from the lorry.
    ‘No,’ Hugh Boxer said, ‘not exactly. There are a few around. Ever watched
Bergerac
?’
    She nodded.
    ‘One of those. I don’t think its been on the road for thirty years.’
    ‘Do you collect them?’
    ‘Sort of.’ His eyes studied her more seriously for a fleeting moment, as if they were probing for something. It made her feel uncomfortable.
    The removals men were humping the sofa up the steps behind him.
    ‘It’ll take me the best part of a day’s work to move the bales. I’ll try and do it sometime in the