‘I find Photo does odd things sometimes. I’ve not heard of it happening – but I suppose it could.’ Ollie heard a slurp – it sounded as though Webb was having a drink of something. Then he continued. ‘Remember in the old days when you took actual film into a shop to get it developed?’
‘That does seem a long while back!’
‘Yeah. Well, in those days – it happened to me a couple of times – when I got my photos back sometimes there’d be a rogue one slipped in among them somehow – totally random – another couple’s baby, or holiday snap.’
‘And that might have happened here? Chris, the coincidence would be – insane! I saw this old boy last week, chatted to him, then I wake up this morning and there’s his photograph on the phone. Come on, what are the chances of that happening – that somehow the Cloud has delivered someone else’s photograph of him to me? How many gazillion to one?’
‘Coincidences happen.’
‘I know, but this. I just . . .’ He fell silent.
After some moments Webb said, sounding bemused, ‘I’m sorry, Ollie, it’s the best explanation I can give you. Otherwise I’m stumped. I’ll have a word with someone I know at Apple and see if I can find out how often something like this does happen.’
‘I’d be very grateful, Chris.’
Ollie ended the call and stayed at his desk, staring down at the old man. He couldn’t place the background, which was indistinct. He enlarged his face, as he had done several times earlier, to make absolutely sure he wasn’t mistaken. But it wasn’t just the face, it was his briar pipe, that gnarled walking stick, that strange quiff-like hairstyle, the rheumy eyes. Chris Webb was usually right, and what he had said, however far-fetched, was the only possible explanation.
He went downstairs, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and pulled on the new wellington boots Caro had given him as an early birthday present last month. He had already told Caro his birthday was to be a quiet affair – just dinner with a few friends. The wild party would have to wait until their finances had recovered from buying and renovating this place. Just then, the builders arrived full of excuses – they’d been held up at a supplier waiting for some damp-proofing material they’d been promised. But, frustratingly, there was still no sign of the electrician or plumber.
He tugged on a baseball cap then set off in the drizzle down the drive, walking at a faster stride than normal, on a mission. He was deep in thought and ignored the comic-looking alpacas in the field to his right, trotting inquisitively over towards him.
He looked up at the sinister wyverns on the gate pillars, as he walked through into the lane, then stopped as the red post van roared up the hill, its right-turn indicator winking. It pulled up beside him and the driver greeted him.
‘Mr Harcourt?’ He held up several envelopes, held together with a rubber band. ‘Want these or shall I pop them through the letter box?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind taking them up to the house?’
‘Not at all! Moved in all right?’
‘Just about! Tell me – what time do you collect the post from there?’ Ollie pointed at the small red Royal Mail postbox, half-hidden by the hedgerow on the other side of the lane.
‘One collection a day – around half past four weekday afternoons, about midday on Saturdays. If you need later your best bet would be the post office in Hassocks.’
Ollie thanked him, and the mail van roared off up the drive. Then he glanced up and down the lane, and was disappointed to see it was deserted. The wet weather had intensified the smells of the leaves and grasses and he breathed the air in, savouring it as he set off down the hill.
A few minutes later he pushed open the gate of Garden Cottage and walked up the path. The decrepit front door was, as before, ajar. He called out, ‘Hello!’
Annie Porter appeared in grubby dungarees, her hands caked with clay. She seemed delighted to see him. ‘Ollie! Do come in! You’ve come for some more of my elderflower cordial, have you? Pretty addictive stuff – some of the locals here call my cordial the crack cocaine of Cold Hill!’
Ollie laughed.
He was soon seated at the small pine table in her kitchen. Annie Porter rinsed her hands, brewed coffee, then opened a tin and arranged homemade shortbread on a plate while he waited patiently.
Finally, the coffee made, she sat down opposite him. ‘It’s good you’re here, you’ve saved me a trip – I’ve actually got the bottled cordial I was going to bring up to you, and some ginger marmalade.’
‘Thank you!’
‘As I said, it’s a delight to have new faces here in the village.’ She waited for Ollie to pour some milk in his coffee then helped herself to some. ‘So, you know, I’ve really been puzzling about this fellow you asked me about. I just can’t think who it could be.’
Taking his cue, Ollie removed his phone from his pocket, clicked on the photograph of the old man to enlarge it, and then showed the image to her. ‘This is him.’
She looked at it and frowned. ‘This?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is the man you saw in the lane last week?’
‘Yes. Do you recognize him now?’
She gave Ollie a very strange look, then she took the iPhone from him and peered closely at the photograph for several seconds. ‘You saw him in the lane last week? This man?’
‘Yes – er –’ he thought for a moment – ‘last Tuesday.’
She shook her head. ‘Last Tuesday? You couldn’t have done.’
‘I had a conversation with him. I think I told you yesterday, he said he used to work at our house.’
She studied the picture again then asked, ‘Where did you take this, Ollie?’
‘Do you recognize him?’ He ignored her question, deliberately.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Who is he? What’s his name?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m really finding this very strange. You say you saw him last week?’
He nodded.
‘You couldn’t have done – he must have a double.’
‘Why’s that, Annie?’ he asked, feeling a sudden cold void in the pit of his stomach. Was he still dreaming?
‘Well, this is Harry Walters, I’m sure of it. But there’s no way you could have seen him last week.’ She gave him a very frosty stare. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘you’re really making me feel very uncomfortable.’
Ollie raised his arms. ‘I’m sorry. I—’
‘What exactly is your angle here?’ Her voice had become cold.
‘Angle?’
‘Game? Are you playing a game?’ She stared again at the image. Ollie sipped his coffee. It was good but, perturbed by her sudden change of demeanour, he barely noticed the taste.
‘I don’t quite get what you’re trying to do,’ she said, eventually.
‘All I’m trying to do is to find out who this chap is, so I can find him and talk to him again.’
She gave him a bemused look, across the table. ‘You don’t strike me as a loony, Ollie.’
He grinned. ‘Well, that’s good to know.’
‘But you want me to believe you had a chat with Harry Walters last week and took his photograph?’
Ollie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yup – well—’
‘And you want me to tell you where to find him?’
‘Please, I really do need to speak to him.’
She looked straight at him. Her eyes were a clear grey-blue. Very beautiful and honest eyes. ‘This conversation you had with Harry Walters – last week?’
He nodded.
‘He told you he used to work at Cold Hill House?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He told me that he’d been asked to house-sit for the owners – Sir Henry and Lady Rothberg. I googled them but couldn’t find much. He was a banker, and they both died in 1980.’
‘Yes, that was only a few months after we came here.’ She studied the photograph intently. ‘This is just
uncanny,’ she said without lifting her eyes. ‘You haven’t told me where you took this.’
He hesitated, not wanting to tell a lie that could compound itself. ‘Well . . .’
‘This is definitely Harry. But he’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘He died – oh – quite a few years ago. I remember the date roughly because a property company bought your house and there was a lot of gossip in the village about what they were going to do with it. Some silly old fool put a rumour around that they were going to tear it down and build a tower-block of flats. Anyhow, they were doing a lot of work on renovating the place, and Harry went back to work as a gardener there – his wife had died and he was happy to have something to do. He was a jolly good gardener – helped us a bit when we first moved in. I learned quite a bit about growing vegetables from him.’ Her expression became wistful. ‘Poor old Harry.’
The cat wandered in and meowed.
‘What do you want, Horatio?’ she asked.
The cat meowed again and wandered disdainfully back out.
‘He actually died on your property,’ she said. ‘There’ve been a few tragedies there over the years, unfortunately.’
His unease deepened. ‘What happened to Harry Walters?’
‘Well, what I heard was that he was working around the edge of the lake, using one of those backhoes to pull reeds out. There’d been heavy rain in the previous weeks, and the bank just gave way under the weight of the machine. It toppled sideways, then rolled on to him and pinned him down just below the surface. He drowned in only about a foot of water.’
‘Backhoe? A digger?’
‘Yes, that’s right, a mechanical digger.’
19
Tuesday, 15 September
Ollie stood in the steeply banked graveyard at the rear of the Norman church. Beyond the far wall, sheep grazed on the hillside. He stopped at this large marble headstone, with carved angels on either side. It had the air of a family mausoleum, and was much grander than the rest of the headstones here, many of which were so weather-beaten their engravings had almost faded completely, or were partially masked by lichen and moss. Some were leaning over at angles.
He read down the list of O’Hares. A whole family wiped out. Was it a car crash, he wondered. Very sad and poignant. For some reason the name ‘O’Hare’ rang a faint bell, but he couldn’t think why. He took a photograph of the headstone, then moved on with his search through the graves until he found what he was looking for.
The plain headstone looked much more modern than most of the others here. An elderly lady in a headscarf was placing flowers beside what looked like a very recent grave, a few rows away, the mound of earth along it still well above ground level, not yet settled.
Ollie knelt and photographed the headstone. As he was standing back up he was startled by a cultured voice behind him.
‘Is that a relative of yours?’
He turned and saw a tall, lean, rather gangly man in his late forties, wearing a crew-neck Aran jumper with a dog collar just visible, blue jeans and black boots. He had thinning fair hair and a handsome face with an insouciant, rather world-weary expression that reminded Ollie of a younger version of the actor Alan Rickman.
‘No, just someone I’m rather interested in!’ He held out his hand. ‘Oliver Harcourt – we’ve just moved into the village.’
‘Yes, indeed, Cold Hill House? I’m Roland Fortinbrass, the vicar here.’ He shook Ollie’s hand firmly.
‘A very Shakespearean name,’ Ollie replied, thinking of the odd coincidence of Harry Walters mentioning Shakespeare in his dream.
‘Ah yes, a very minor character, I’m afraid. And he only had one “s” – I have two. Still, it has its advantages.’ He smiled. ‘People tend to remember my name! So, are you all settling in? I was planning to pay you a visit soon to introduce myself, and see if I can encourage you into joining a few of our activities.’
The drizzle was coming down more heavily now, but the vicar did not seem bothered by it.
‘Actually, my wife, Caro, and I were saying that we should try to get involved in village life a bit.’
‘Excellent! You have a little girl, I believe?’
‘Jade. She’s just turning thirteen.’
‘Perhaps she’d like to join in some of our youth activities? Does she sing?’
Privately, Ollie thought Jade would rather take poison than join in any local church activities. ‘Well . . . I’ll have a word with her.’
‘We could do with a few more in our choir. What about you and your wife?’
‘I’m afraid neither of us would be much of an asset.’
‘Pity. But if you’re keen to join activities, we’ve plenty on offer. When would be a good time for me to pop up?’
‘Caro’s at work all week – she’s a solicitor. Perhaps Saturday sometime?’ He looked back at the grave for a moment. ‘Actually, there is something I’d—’ He stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘No, it’s OK.’ He looked back at the tombstone. ‘Did you know this man – Harry Walters?’
‘Before my time, I’m afraid. My predecessor would have – Bob Manthorpe. He’s retired now, but I have his contact details. May I ask what your interest is?’ The vicar shot a glance at his watch. ‘Look, tell you what, I’m free for half an hour or so – I’ve got a couple coming to talk about their wedding plans at one o’clock. Fancy coming out of the rain and having a cuppa?’
‘Well – OK – if it’s no trouble?’
Roland Fortinbrass smiled. ‘I’m here for the community. It would be a pleasure. My wife’s out but she might be back in time to meet you.’
The vicarage was a small modern box of a house, spartanly furnished. Ollie sat on a sofa, cradling a mug of scalding coffee, while the vicar sat, legs crossed, in an armchair opposite him. Copies of the parish magazine lay on a simple wooden table between them, next to a plate of gingerbread biscuits. A crucifix hung as the central decoration on one wall and, rather incongruously, a framed colour photograph of a 1930s British Racing Green Bentley three-and-a-half on another. A row of birthday cards was on the mantelpiece, above an empty grate.
Fortinbrass noticed Ollie looking at the car. ‘My grandfather’s,’ he said. ‘He was a bit of a motor-racing man. Shame we no longer have it.’
‘I have a client who has one up for sale at £160,000,’ Ollie said. ‘With a decent racing pedigree it could be double that.’
‘He raced it at Le Mans, but didn’t finish! What line of business are you in – something to do with the web, I believe?’
Ollie grinned. ‘Caro and I have always been townies. When we made the decision to move, someone told me that in a village everyone knows everything about you within minutes!’
‘Oh, we’re townies, too! My first church was in Brixton. Then Croydon. This is my first foray into the countryside. And I must say, I love it – but you are right, it can be very parochial. I fear I’ve upset some of the older folk here already by introducing guitar music into some of my services. But we have to do something. When I took over in 2010 we had just seven people coming to Communion, and twenty-three at Matins. I’m happy to say we’ve increased that now. Anyhow, tell me a bit more about your interest in that grave? Harry Walters?’
‘How much do you know about our house, Vicar?’
‘Please call me Roland. I always think vicar sounds dreadfully old-fashioned and rather stuffy!’
‘OK, and I’m Ollie.’
‘It’s very good to meet you, Ollie.’
‘Likewise.’
‘So, Cold Hill House. I don’t know a great deal, really. I gather it’s been in need of some TLC for rather a long time. A big restoration project that needs someone with passion – and quite deep pockets.’
‘I was talking to a local, Annie Porter?’
‘Good, you’ve met her. Now she is a really delightful lady! And quite a character. Her late husband was a hero in the Falklands War.’
‘So I understand
. I really like her.’
‘She’s most charming!’
‘She said there had been a number of tragedies at the house – I think I’m going back a few years here. That’s part of my reason for my interest in Harry Walters. He was killed in an accident at the house – or rather, in the grounds.’
‘Oh?’
‘He drowned in the lake – a mechanical digger he was driving toppled over.’
The vicar looked genuinely shocked. ‘That’s simply dreadful. I hope it hasn’t put you off in any way?’
Ollie thought for some moments. This was an opportunity to quiz the vicar on his views on ghosts, and yet he didn’t want to come across as a flake on their first meeting. ‘Absolutely not. The past is . . .’ He fell silent.
‘Another country?’ Fortinbrass prompted.
Ollie sipped some coffee and smiled. ‘That’s what I’m hoping.’
20
Tuesday, 15 September
‘So did you find that fellow you were looking for?’ Lester Beeson asked, placing a Diet Coke on the counter. ‘You wanted ice and lemon you said?’
The landlord was distracted today, as there were a dozen elderly, noisy ramblers in the bar, all in soaking wet cagoules, brightly coloured anoraks and muddy boots, a couple of them poring over a soggy map at a table.
‘Yes, thanks, ice and lemon is fine. Yes, I’ve found him.’
‘Good.’
‘Where are the toilets, please?’ a woman called to the landlord.
Beeson jerked a finger over to the far wall.
Ollie ordered a prawn salad, carried his drink over to an alcove, as far away from the ramblers as he could get, and sat down. Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket, opened his photos and looked at the two he had taken an hour earlier in the graveyard, of Harry Percival Walters’s headstone. Born May 1928, died October 2008. That made him eighty when he died, he calculated. Then he swiped across to have another look at the photograph of Harry Walters himself.
It was no longer there.
Puzzled, he checked through his albums. All the most recent photographs he had taken, over the weekend and yesterday, chronicling every step of the restoration work on the house, were still there. Even though he backed up all his photographs to his laptop and iPad and to the Cloud, he usually kept them on his phone too, for quick reference.