Is he with Sirocco right now? Are they fleeing together?
Unable to keep still, even to stay in one room, she gets up, descends two flights of steps into the cellar and flicks on the dim lights.
Dead flies litter the floor of the first, largest room and crunch underfoot. No matter how many she sweeps away, there always seem to be more. Most are houseflies, but there are others too, moths, crane flies, huge great bluebottles. She has no idea where they come from in the middle of winter but they appear with a worrying regularity. As though there is something down here that attracts them. Which is impossible, of course. She cleans down here often. It is the most frequently swept, dusted, bleached and polished basement in the West Country.
And still, the flies.
She looks around for the broom, not sure whether she left it down here after her last visit or took it back upstairs to the kitchen cupboard. As her eyes fall on the dark walls, the now empty shelves, the flagged flooring, she has a sense that this may be the last time she ever comes to the cellar.
She should check, one last time, make sure there is nothing she missed.
Three storage heaters line one wall. A fourth stands beneath the high narrow windows. This room, like the rest of the house, is never cold when she is in it. For several years her heating bills have been huge. A faint smear of dust has settled on the heaters but she needn’t worry about that. Not any more.
The high, narrow, horizontally figured windows, alone in the room, are never cleaned. They are beyond dirty, filthy even, as though someone has smeared mud across them, making it impossible for anyone outside to see in. The windows are the one big disadvantage to this house and yet they are necessary all the same. The windows let in the flies.
Maggie walks past them, catching a scent of the chill night air, towards the back of the cellar. The smallest basement room appears to be a bathroom but the plumbing has been disconnected long ago. Turning on the taps would produce nothing but a few splutters of dank air. Any liquid poured into the Victorian-style roll-top bath would drain, not to waste pipes, but into a large, shallow tray that lies immediately beneath the plug. Several large buckets stand to one side.
The bath is spotless. So is the drain tray. So are the buckets.
By the side of the bath is a large plastic container of household bleach. More out of habit than because she knows it is necessary, Maggie opens it and pours it around the rim of the bath. Bleach is thick and it takes time to run down the enamel sides of the bath, gathering in the bottom, draining out into the tray. Slowly, the tray fills. She will empty it tomorrow, on the land at the bottom of her garden, because pouring that amount of bleach down the drain would be traceable.
The sudden banging makes her jump. Someone is upstairs, hammering on her back door. Knowing she has no choice now but to move with events, she makes her way up, expecting to see Pete. He will want to make sure she knows about the escape, that she is taking sensible precautions. He will think she needs to fear Wolfe. She sensed a new and unsettling coldness in him earlier, but Pete is a good man. He will no doubt offer, once again, to find a room for her at the Crown in Wells.
The very air seems to be thickening around her, making it harder to move freely. Every step she takes upstairs increases the heaviness in her chest. Is it possible, really, that she might never see Hamish again?
Silently she opens the door to the back hallway. She has disconnected the security lights at the back of her house and can only see a dark silhouette through the glass of the door. She doesn’t think whoever is out there is tall enough to be Pete. Her heart leaps momentarily, but too small to be Pete is too small to be Hamish and it settles back down again. She unlocks the door and opens it.
Sirocco.
‘He’s out,’ Sirocco steps forward, as though Maggie will simply invite her in, take her coat and put the kettle on. ‘He’s escaped. Have you heard?’
Sirocco seems to be wearing even more loose, flowing clothing than usual. On her head, clamping down her unruly black hair, is a tight-fitting beanie-style cap. She looks dressed to travel and the sight sends another pang into Maggie’s heart.
There is some hope, though, in her being here. She isn’t with Hamish yet.
‘I saw it on the news,’ says Maggie, wondering how to take this forward. The last time she saw Sirocco she’d been afraid for her life. This isn’t the top of a Ferris wheel, though, here she is on home ground.
‘Read this.’ Sirocco has fumbled in her coat pocket and is holding out a sheet of pale blue paper. ‘Read this and tell me what it means.’