The Bones in the Attic (2 page)

Matthew thought. He came up against all sorts of odd eventualities vicariously, through reading the news and interviewing people for Radio Leeds.

“Doesn't seem to me I have any choice,” he said. “If those are human bones the police have to be informed.”

“Use my mobile if you like.”

Matt took it, but then on impulse turned and climbed back down again and then down the stairs to the kitchen. He wanted to put as much space as possible between himself and that horrible memento mori in the darkness above. He dialed 999.

“Hello. I think I need the Leeds police. . . . Well, I suppose I want to report a suspicious death.”

Matt looked at the house, at Elderholm. He had loved these houses as soon as he saw them, and had begun to feel he belonged there even before he moved in. Now he just had to hope this was not going to cause a revulsion. His eyes traveled around his new home. There were two stone terraces in Houghton Avenue, four houses each—solid, roomy houses, sitting square on earth and telling the world they were built to last, as a house should be. He had not met any of the neighbors yet, but he felt that he—that they, he and Aileen and the children—would fit in. Surely the houses weren't going to disappoint him? A
figure loomed, standing back from the window, upstairs in the house next door. He was being watched.

On cue something was provided to make watching worthwhile. A police car nosed its way round the lane leading from Houghton Avenue, and on a sign from him drove forward and drew up beside him. A tall black man got out and extended his hand.

“I'm Detective Sergeant Peace.”

“Matthew Harper.”

“The footballer. I thought it might be you when they gave me the details. I've heard you often on Radio Leeds. It's nice to hear about things going on locally that aren't criminal. And is this the house where you made the discovery?”

“That's right. You'd better come in.”

They went through the kitchen into the hall. Charlie looked around him appreciatively.

“Nice and spacious, even if it does need a lot doing to it. You've got children?”

“Not of my own. My partner's. May be we'll have another. I love children. That's why—”

Sergeant Peace cut in.

“Yes. It must have been distressing. My wife's just had our first. But let's not jump the gun, shall we? Lead the way.”

Matt started upstairs again, then up the retractable staircase to the attic. Advising care, he led the way across the beams, and then took up the torch he had left on the low brick wall. The two men, standing together, looked down at the collection of bones, somehow forlorn in the beam of light. Sergeant Peace suddenly turned away.

“Ugh. Brings it home to you. So you think it's a child, do you?”

“It's all I can think it could be.”

“I'm pretty sure you're right. When you've got a baby to look after, you often think how fragile it is, how defenseless, but this . . .”

“Looks as if it's been here a long time,” said Matt, eyeing the layers of encrusted dust.

“Yes. But that may be deceptive.” Sergeant Peace paused, thinking. “I tell you, I'm used to bodies, but this is way outside my experience. We're going to have to wait for a full forensics report and not jump to any conclusions. . . . I feel like getting out of here, don't you?”

“Yes!”

When they were down again in the large old kitchen, complete with Aga stove and a greasy area on the wall behind the hot plates, Sergeant Peace got on to headquarters, reported the finding of what was apparently a child's skeleton, apparently a long-dead one, and requested a forensics team. When he had told them as much as he knew, he said he'd wait for backup and signed off. Then he turned back to Matt.

“Now, Mr. Harper—”

“Matt.”

“Matt. I'm Charlie. And we're both from London, I can hear, though we've both covered it up.”

“Yes. Bermondsey.”

“I'm Brixton. Come up when you signed for Bradford, did you?”

“No. We moved to Colchester when I was a boy. But I've never wanted to go back.”

“Me neither, though I'm not sure why. I thought London was the bee's knees when I was living there. Sheer ignorance, I suppose. Now, are you the owner of this house?”

“That's right. As of last Friday.”

“Who was the seller?”

“Man called Carl Farson. Son of the actual owner, Cuthbert Farson, who's a man of nearly ninety.”

“So the son's got power of attorney, has he?”

“That's right.”

“Any idea how long the father lived here, if he did?”

“No idea, but he did live here. I met the son briefly at the estate agents'. He's a man of around sixty himself, and he said he didn't grow up in the house, though he visited his dad here often.”

“I see. Who were the estate agents handling the sale?”

“Sewell and Greeley, in Pudsey.”

“Right. So you were just looking around, were you?”

“Yes, with a decorator, name of Tony Tyler. We were planning what needed doing, and wondering whether the attic could be used as a bedroom or a games room. I'm beginning to think we'd better put any plans like that on hold for a bit.”

“Yes. The kids are bound to find out.”

“And children have very long memories,” said Matthew thoughtfully. “About some things, anyway.”

“They do. Looked to me, at a glance, as if the attic hadn't been much used.”

“That was our impression. May be one end, near the trapdoor, had had a few tea chests there, or ordinary luggage, or just this and that. It was less dusty there. But anybody clearing them out wouldn't necessarily go to the far end, where there's no flooring, in fact, there'd be no reason for them to do that at all. We only went because we were wondering about this bedroom.”

“I'm sure you're right. Now—oh, that looks like the
team.” Outside two police cars were drawing up in the lane. “There's not much you can do here for the moment, Matt. Could I have a home and a work telephone number for you?”

“Sure. Home is 2574 945 and at Radio Leeds it's 2445 738.”

“Right. I'll be in contact as soon as I know anything. If I get your partner, she'll know about it, will she?”

“Aileen's away at the moment. I plan to tell the children tonight if circumstances are right.”

“Fine.” Charlie opened the door to the forensics team and directed them up to the attic. He was silent until he was sure they were well out of earshot, then he turned to Matt.

“In confidence, Matt: if we're right that this was a child, but the bones have been up there a long while, this is not likely to be a high-priority investigation.” A grimace passed over Matt's face at the thought of the child's brief life being considered of so little account, its death—its murder, or whatever it turned out to be—passed over so casually. “I know, I know,” said Peace. “It's sad, and I know what I'd feel if I'd made the discovery. It's a question of priorities, of the likelihood of getting results, of police resources and budgets. You're into news gathering. You'll know all about the pressures on us. I'd be willing to bet the best we can hope for is putting a name to him or her. OK, I
hope
we can do better than that, but I'd be wrong to make any promises.”

“Right,” said Matt with a sigh. “I'll be off.”

“Good to have met you,” said Charlie, shaking hands. “I'll be in touch as soon as I have any concrete information. And of course I'll tell you the moment the forensics
people have finished and the house is your own again.”

Matt thanked him, but a flash through his brain asked the question whether the house would ever be his own. He put the thought from him. Of course it would. It would have to. He slipped out the back door, dodging another carload of policemen and -women clad in white overalls, and went out the little back gate and toward his car.

“Excuse me.”

Matt turned round and looked down. A small man had come out from the house next door to his, and was standing beside him looking up. He was about five feet four, thin and weedy in appearance, with sparse hair and frown lines in his forehead. There was a sort of self-importance about him that was neither comic nor impressive.

“Yes?” The moment Matt said the word it sounded ridiculously cold, and, concealing a degree of reluctance, he held out his hand and said, “You must be one of my new neighbors. I'm the new owner of Elderholm. I'm Matt Harper.”

“Ah . . . Edward Cazalet. I believe I should have heard of you. The estate agent has mentioned it to someone. You're some kind of footballer.”

Matt, mischievously, decided to take him literally.

“Center half as a rule. My footballing days are over now. I work for Radio Leeds and ‘Look North.'”

The man nodded. Those two things had swum within his ken.

“Ah . . . I—I hope there's nothing
wrong
?”

He cast a limp hand in the direction of the police activity, as if he was nourishing the hope they were rehearsing for
The Pirates of Penzance.
Matt felt a strong disinclination to give him a reason for their presence in Elderholm.

“I hope not. That is what the police team is here to find out.”

“My wife and I do
hate
any unpleasantness.”

“No more than I do myself.”

The little man shook his head, as if that was impossible, and to show he had dire forebodings.

“Such a bad way to begin.”

“Very true. It was a great shock, finding what I found.”

“Ah. This concerns something that you
found,
or say you found?”

“Something that I found. Not something I could conceivably have brought with me. I am not at liberty to say what it was, of course.”

“N-no, of course not.”

“But it is something that has been in the house for a long time.”

“Oh. Oh, dear! Well—I don't know what to say.”

And he retreated back behind his little gate.

Getting into his car and driving away, Matt felt dissatisfaction with the encounter, and with himself. He had always thought of himself as good at reading signs, judging people by their outward appearance and behavior. This man he could hardly even guess the age of. He looked the sort of person who, even in his cradle, had seemed worried by the human condition, or perhaps the state of the property market. And as a consequence, now he could have been forty, sixty, or any stage in between. Querulous, pernickety, with an old-fashioned concern about keeping up appearances. He couldn't hide it from himself: he didn't like the man. And Cazalet in his turn had seemed determined from the start not to like him.