She stopped. ‘Did you hear something?’
‘My phone?’ His hand went to his pocket. It was high time Dave Albison called. But nothing had come through.
‘Voices,’ Hen said.
He shook his head.
‘I’m not making this up.’
‘Inside the cottage?’
‘No, in the open. From next door, I expect.’
They waited a few seconds. Whatever Hen had heard wasn’t repeated, so they pressed on, tangling with spiders’ webs, brambles and overgrown shrubs to get to the back door.
‘This was the window I looked through,’ she said.
He put his face close to the dusty glass. ‘I don’t know how you saw anything.’
‘Outlined in the doorway.’
‘The door’s closed.’
‘Get away. It wasn’t when I was last here.’ She peered in, shading her eyes with her hand. ‘Well, there’s a thing. Someone was inside, or I’ve gone squiffy.’
He approached the back door. ‘Let’s see if we can get in.’
‘Notice the catflap,’ Hen said. ‘I didn’t imagine that.’
‘I can’t squeeze through there. You might manage.’ He tried the handle, but the door was locked. It was a simple, old-fashioned mortise lock set into the wood. He bent to look through the keyhole.
‘Wouldn’t you know it?’ He stepped back and felt in his pocket. ‘There’s a way of picking a lock like this.’
‘Tell me about it, Houdini. I don’t think the credit card trick is going to work. All you’ll do is damage your card.’
‘Do you have a nail file?’
‘Do I look like a woman who carries a nail file?’
‘I may have to use brute force.’
‘Before you do,’ she said, ‘look under the doormat.’
After giving her the look that said even in rural Sussex keys under doormats were a thing of the past, he stooped to lift a corner of the filthy old coconut mat. Underneath were a few dead earthworms and a large family of woodlice. He lifted the whole mat. More wildlife. No key. He dropped the mat, making his feelings clear.
‘Try the ledge above the door.’
Swearing under his breath, he felt with his fingertips and touched something that moved, fell and hit the mat.
A rusty key.
‘How did you know?’
‘Old cottage, old custom.’
He used the key and it worked. ‘Hen, I owe you a beer.’
‘Make that Sussex Pride.’
They stepped inside the kitchen and saw at once that it had been in use not long ago. A bowl of fresh cat food was on the floor to the right. The sink was damp and there was a mug with the dregs of some coffee. Diamond found the fridge and opened it. The interior light came on.
‘They have a power supply.’
They also had eggs, butter, milk, yoghurt, an opened tin of apricots and some grapefruit.
He said, ‘I’m starting to feel like Goldilocks.’
She eyed his scant hair and said, ‘No comment.’
He crossed the room and stepped through a door.
It’s strange how violence announces itself. For a split second he sensed imminent danger. He ducked, but couldn’t stop something heavy and hard impacting with his head. A starburst was followed by oblivion.
Somebody was speaking his name. He tried to respond and couldn’t. His voice wasn’t working.
He felt the chill of water splash his face. He shook his head and opened his eyes. Focusing was difficult. A shape materialised and sharpened. A face close to his.
‘Get a grip for God’s sake, Goldilocks.’
Only one person ever spoke to him like that.
He managed to whisper to Hen, ‘What happened?’
‘You got taken out with a frying pan.’
It took an effort to work out that he was lying on the floor. A cushion had been placed under his head. It felt like a cement block. He tried to move.
‘Keep still,’ Hen said. ‘Don’t force it.’
‘Who...?’
‘Can’t tell you. They’re not here any longer. Belted out through the front. I didn’t get much of a look. He must have been poised right here with the frying pan. Can’t really blame him. We’re intruders.’
‘You didn’t give chase?’
‘Seeing to you was more urgent.’
‘Am I bleeding?’
‘You’ll have a bump the size of a plum.’
‘How long was I out?’
‘More than the official count. It was one hell of a crack. Do you want a drink now? I can prop you up a bit.’
‘I’d rather get after him.’
‘You’re in no shape.’
‘Never was.’ He propped himself up on one elbow. The head was sore, but clearing. ‘I’ll be all right. I took harder knocks in my rugby-playing days.’
‘Not with a three-pound frying pan you didn’t. Feel the weight of that.’ She held out the offensive weapon, black and solid-looking.
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He sat up fully. ‘Let’s at least take a look outside. He can’t be far off.’ He braced his legs, grabbed the doorpost and hauled himself up. Briefly he thought his balance was going, and then he stood firm.
‘Crazy guy,’ Hen said. ‘You’re not ready.’
The fresh air helped his head. In the hayfield that had once been a garden, they looked for signs of disturbance. The beaten paths to the front gate, the garden hut and the door in the wall were the obvious routes his attacker might have taken.
‘Stay here while I check the back. Give a yell if you see him,’ Hen said. She was in charge and he was in no shape to argue.
The front gate wasn’t far off, and he didn’t feel quite so bad, so he stepped out on those shaky legs to get a better view. Hen’s car stood in the lane. No other vehicle had been in sight when they arrived, making it unlikely anyone had escaped on wheels. He managed a few more steps, looking to both sides. There weren’t many places for his attacker to hide.
As he was turning to go back he thought he heard a sound like someone clearing their throat.
He stopped to listen. It may have come from the woods fringing the road. Possibly a deer or a fox. Hen, the countrywoman, would know one animal sound from another. She’d laugh if he’d been taken in.
He started to move on, then felt unsteady, so he stopped by the car and leaned his back against it, thinking Hen had been right. He should have waited longer before trying to move.
He felt in his pocket for the phone. Albison still hadn’t called. Had the thing been damaged when he fell? He checked and it seemed to be functioning normally. No calls had been received.
Then a disembodied voice said, ‘Are you all right?’
He turned.
A woman stood up on the other side of the Fiat. She must have been crouching out of sight behind it. Middle-aged, with owlish round glasses and her dark hair in a coiled plait, she was in a jumper and skirt — unsuitable for outdoors on a cool autumn afternoon — so he had to assume she was the squatter.
‘Was it you in there?’ he asked.
She clutched both hands to her chest. ‘I’m so sorry. You frightened me, coming into the cottage suddenly like that.’
He returned the phone to his pocket, trying to decide how he should deal with this.
‘You’re terribly pale,’ she said. ‘You ought to lie down.’
As if he wasn’t confused enough, his attacker was troubled about the state of his health. ‘What were you doing in there?’
‘I’m living there. Who are you?’
The question he’d been on the point of asking her. Saying he was from the police would surely panic her. He didn’t trust his legs to go in pursuit. ‘You don’t know me. My name’s Peter.’