She stood on the stool, reached up to dislodge the trapdoor, sliding it to one side, and then hooked the ladder in place. The hooks bit into the timber, and the rope unravelled. So far so good. She took the stool back because nothing must seem out of place when Weston returned making sure she had left no footprints anywhere.
It was quite difficult to actually ascend the rope ladder; it was very light and swung back and forth. It was made harder by the close-fitting balaclava helmet and the long gloves, but Donna was still being painstaking about leaving any DNA. In the end she managed it, and clambered over the edge of the trapdoor into the attic. She peered down at the stairs and the landing, shining the large torch which she had slung around her neck. Had she left any telltale signs anywhere? Any flurries of dust on the floor? No, there was nothing. She knelt on the edge of the attic opening, pulled the rope up, and then pushed the trapdoor back into position. She was as sure as she could be that it would seem undisturbed from below.
The attic was cramped and hot and it was going to be uncomfortable up here for several hours, but Donna did not care. It was fairly dusty but it was not as dusty as it might have been, because she had cleaned it out herself while she was staying here. Before she gave up the tenancy she had been careful to leave a couple of old travelling rugs up here, some cushions, and a couple of old packing cases. Even if the attic were later to be searched, it was not very likely that these things would strike anyone as suspicious. She spread the rug out behind a packing case, switched off the torch to save the battery, and settled down to wait.
It gave her a deep pleasure to think of the agonies Antonia would be enduring–of how finding Greg’s body with the knife sticking out of his chest and the Caprice music lying alongside it, would have taken her another step nearer to the mental disintegration that Donna was aiming for. Might she even now be questioning her own sanity? At the very least, she would know that the peace of Amberwood and the anonymity she had sought had been destroyed, and that would be agony in itself.
It was all working out exactly as Donna had intended. For the next few hours she would have to be very alert indeed in case the police searched the cottage, but there would be no signs that anyone had got up through the trapdoor, and even if they did get up here, they would probably only take a cursory look. In that situation Donna would have plenty of warning and she would huddle under the travelling rug. She was fairly confident she would not be seen.
It would be all right. Every detail was worked out; she had covered every eventuality, and she was prepared for the unexpected.
She had not been prepared for the unexpected on the day, five years ago, when she had first driven out to Twygrist. Weston had just started her prison sentence and Donna’s plan had still been in its early, tentative stage.
Her mind had already focused on the dark squat silhouette of the old Amberwood mill where her parents had died. Twygrist. There would be a certain justice if Twygrist could play a part in Antonia Weston’s final downfall. Donna thought she could at least drive up and take a look round. There was no one to wonder where she was going, or ask questions, not any longer.
Twygrist, seen by a dull autumn light, was as forbidding and as secret as she remembered. She parked her car at a distance so as not to draw attention to her presence, and walked up the slope to the derelict oak door. It creaked as she pushed it inwards. The stench of the place hit her like a solid wall, but Donna knew at once that this was where Antonia Weston must eventually die. The kiln room again? There were at least eight years to wait before Weston was freed, and Maria and Jim Robards’ death would surely be forgotten by then. In any case, everyone had believed their deaths to have been a tragic accident. She would see if the steel doors were still in place; she had brought a torch with her.