The Forgotten Room: a gripping, chilling thriller that will have you hooked. Ann Troup
use the phrase “there’s no peace for the wicked”; though Maura knew it to be prophetic in meaning, she often wondered if it was also retrospective. She felt she must have been abominably wicked in some former life to be experiencing so little peace now. Perhaps this was purgatory after all.
Now she’d had time to absorb the fact, knowledge of an unexplained death and the presence of the bones weighed heavy. Someone had lost their life near the Grange and had been buried on its land, and in the not-too-distant past. The thought brushed her spine with icy fingers and fluffed the hairs on the back of her neck, making her shudder. A movement that engaged the attention of the drooling Buster, who nudged at her elbow and whined for her to get up and follow. His pawing at the back door made her realise he needed to go out.
Not entirely confident that Buster wouldn’t go haring off into the back of beyond, and that she would have to face Bob and explain the loss of his dog, she quickly checked that Gordon was still asleep and that no one had left the gas on before following the dog outside.
The air was crisp and quiet, the low hum of the building site no longer intruding on the peace. Even the birds seemed to have sensed that something had shifted in the fabric of the landscape, and though she could see them flitting through the trees, she couldn’t hear their chatter. All she could hear was Buster, sniffing and snuffling in clumps of weeds and occasionally raising his leg to pee on them. She guessed at foxes, that they had left their scent in the yard and that Buster was establishing his territory in a vain attempt to obliterate their smell. She hoped to God he didn’t find any fox poo; her last experience of dog-sitting had involved a shit-covered dog, an extensive, all-pervading stench, and scrubbing the house for an hour while a soggy, freshly shampooed dog ran riot around her. She definitely didn’t “do” dogs.
Bored of the yard, Buster began clawing at the gate. Not having explored the outside, Maura was curious as to what lay beyond it too. Once through the gate, Buster bounded down the path, ears bouncing and flapping as he cantered ahead. It was obvious to Maura that he knew exactly where he was going and she followed dutifully, wondering if their roles hadn’t been reversed. Wasn’t she supposed to lead the way?
It didn’t take long for her to realise that Buster was going home. They were in the orchard, a scrubby, neglected place full of gnarled fruit trees with more canker than leaves. Bob’s bungalow wasn’t difficult to spot, though the word bungalow suggested far more glamour than the ramshackle structure she was confronted with. The building was essentially a badly rendered cinder-block box with a pent roof and some mismatched windows. In fact, it looked more like a large garage than a home.
Outside the door, Buster began to sniff the ground, showing that somewhere in his mongrel mix there might be a bit of ancient bloodhound. It took him a moment or two to find the scent of his quarry, but once he had he was locked on and running. Maura quickened her pace and followed, fervently hoping that he hadn’t scented rats or rabbits or something else likely to lead them both an un-merry dance. Fortunately, the object of his focus was Bob, who was leaning on a fence post, puffing on a shoddily rolled cigarette and obscuring the view with pungent clouds of smoke.
‘I think he wanted to come home,’ Maura said as Bob turned.
‘Did he now?’ Bob said as he bent to scratch the dog behind the ears, his face pinched as he squinted against the smoke leaching from the drooping cigarette that clung to his lip. ‘I been watching the goings on down there,’ he added, pointing at the building site where Maura could see that a large area had been cordoned off. ‘Not much going on at the moment. They’ve put a tent up over the bones by the look and there’s a load of bods in white overalls milling about.’
‘SOCOs I expect,’ Maura said.
‘Eh, whatto’s?’
Maura laughed. ‘You need to watch more telly, Bob. Scene of Crime Officers. They make sure any evidence is handled properly and that the scene is preserved while investigations take place.’
‘Ah, right. I don’t watch much telly – bit of snooker when it’s on. Don’t mind a bit of that Attenborough feller sometimes, though. Mind you, they’re going to be dealing with another body soon by the looks of him.’ He pointed to a heavy-set man in a long coat. Maura could see by his stance that he was riddled with tension, and his face was red with barely contained frustration. He looked like a football manager who’d just seen his team relegated by a series of own goals in the last match of the season.
‘Who is he?’
‘Perlman, the landowner. Not happy that proceedings have come to a halt by the look of him, not happy at all.’
Maura had to concede that the man looked like he might explode at any moment. ‘Definitely not happy. It looks like the press have started to turn up,’ she said, as an inappropriately dressed woman, followed by a cameraman, picked her way across the mud towards the cordon. ‘We’ll be famous in a few hours.’
Bob chuckled. ‘Hope she don’t try to interview Perlman. By the look on his face, they’ll have three bodies to deal with, not one!’
Maura smiled, but felt a pang of guilt at the gesture. Someone was dead and she and Bob were observing the scene with amusement, not even having the grace to show detached curiosity. ‘I suppose we ought to be a bit more dignified about this. Perhaps we should go before that reporter spots us and thinks a bit of local colour might enhance the story.’
Bob nodded. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Don’t feel real, though – to think I’ve been living in spitting distance from that body all this time and never had a clue.’
‘Why would you?’ Maura was puzzled. There was a strain in Bob’s voice that didn’t fit his casual and detached words.
Bob shrugged, ‘Dunno. But I must have walked across the top of it a million times. When the land belonged to the Grange, that is. I’d be trespassing now. I’m surprised old Buster never caught a sniff of it – he likes a bone. Poor sod’s got a lousy sense of smell, though; just goes through the motions these days, bit like me.’ He laughed, but the humour was thin and taut, like an elastic band at the point before it snaps.
They had reached the “bungalow” by then and Maura had to suppress a shudder at the thought of Buster dragging a muddy femur up the path with drooling relish.
‘Coming in for a cuppa?’ Bob asked.
‘Better not. Cheryl will be back soon and she’ll have a ten-ton hissy fit if I’m not there too. Besides, his lordship will be awake soon, demanding his fish-paste sandwiches for tea. I think it’s fish paste today anyway.’
Bob rolled his eyes and gave her a weak grin. ‘A woman’s work is never done, love.’ He reached inside a small lean-to that seemed to serve as a porch and produced a lead, which had a sobering effect on Buster, who hung his head as if in defeat. ‘He don’t like the lead but it’s the only way you’ll get him back with you. Best have him there tonight. I’ve fixed the window but the putty’s still wet, so it isn’t secure. Not that it stopped that rock before.’
He bent and clipped the lead to Buster’s collar and handed it to Maura, who thanked him and towed the reluctant dog back towards the house. All the way back her mind was on Bob. He seemed haunted and she couldn’t help but feel for the man.
If it hadn’t been for the dog suddenly perking up and showing interest, she might have missed it. A sudden flash of movement in the trees near the gate that induced a low, menacing growl from the dog and caused him to strain on the lead. The vegetation was dense near the house. The remains of a garden had sprawled in the absence of tender, loving care, creating an abundance of leggy shrubs and greenery that anything could lurk in unseen. After the previous night’s fright, Maura was wary and called out ‘Who’s there?’ but there was no reply, despite Buster’s continued growling insistence that something of interest was in the bushes. Maura rationally decided to assume it was a squirrel or a cat that he’d sensed, though her instinct told her it had been much bigger. She could hardly claim to have seen anything as such – but the flash of perception had settled in her brain as more than just a stray cat on the prowl. Eager as Buster seemed, she