No one wanted to touch 8 Honington Lane.
The property had been added to the books of Dandridge & Son Estate Agents over eight months ago, and on Olivia’s day off, so she hadn’t been present when her colleague, Jeremy Fox, had slyly logged it under her name.
Roger hadn’t been happy, but Jeremy complained that Olivia had all of the easy properties to sell, accusing their boss of favouritism, something that couldn’t be further from the truth. Her other colleague, Esther, point-blank refused to take the house, fixing Roger with a death stare that had him crawling back to his desk with his tail between his legs.
Truth was, Olivia wasn’t a great salesperson. Unlike Jeremy, who could sell sandcastles if he had to, she lacked the gift of the gab and had terrible sales patter. It was a wonder Roger had ever employed her and a miracle she still had a job. Even Esther, who was past her prime and put a number of clients off with her glacial comments, doubled Olivia’s turnover, and Olivia knew that Roger, be it out of pity or despair, set her up with properties that sold themselves. Just as she knew she had no hope of ever shifting the property on Honington Lane.
The place had belonged to Vera Cadwallader and was being sold by her sons. Given the high price tag that the Cadwallader brothers refused to budge on, and the 1950s time-warp décor that potential buyers refused to look past, viewings had dried up, so it was with great surprise that Dandridge & Son received a new enquiry on Monday morning.
Driving the company car out of the city centre, heading towards the small market town of Swaffham, Olivia flicked through the radio stations after tossing Jeremy’s Backstreet Boys CD out of the player. Jeremy, who had only been at the company for just over a year, viewed the car as his own personal vehicle, given that he was the one who drove it most. While she didn’t relish the viewing – she was fairly certain that Karen Mortimer would lose interest once she had seen the property – it had been worth it to see the look on Jeremy’s face when Roger threw her the car keys.
It had crossed Olivia’s mind that Jeremy could be her tormentor, that the note and the phone call were part of some stupid joke he had decided to play on her.
It was no secret that they didn’t get along. Olivia thought he was a sleaze (seriously, the man had zero personality and looked like a time machine had sucked him up in the eighties and spat him out again), while Jeremy made it no secret that he disliked her.
Did he hate her enough to torment her with threatening notes and late-night phone calls? He knew her car, would be able to access her home telephone number from the staff file, so it was plausible.
The phone call had spooked her, to the point she had gone downstairs to check all of the doors and windows were locked. If it was Jeremy fooling around, she would bloody kill him.
As she approached the turning for Honington Lane, she refocused her mind on the viewing.
The company website showed just a handful of pictures of the property and they were all outdoor shots of the extensive, albeit overgrown, garden. There were no pictures of the interior, and that was for a reason.
Spotting a car already in the front driveway and assuming it belonged to Karen Mortimer, Olivia parked on the side of the road and headed up to the house. The car was empty and the woman didn’t have keys to let herself in, so she had to be having a nose, probably round back checking out the view of open fields from the back garden. If this property ever sold, it would be the garden view that closed the deal.
‘Ms Mortimer? It’s Olivia Blake from Dandridge & Son.’
When there was no response, Olivia picked her way over broken paving slabs, the cracks filled with weeds, wishing she didn’t have heels on. She hated the things, could just about tolerate them when sitting behind her desk. Dressed in her pencil skirt suit and stilettos though, she at least looked the part, even if she was no good at the job.
The client wasn’t round the back and Olivia recalled what little information she had on her. The enquiry had come in by email, Karen Mortimer keen to view the house that day. Roger had responded, giving Olivia a patronising pep talk before pushing her out of the door.
She had the client’s mobile number and pulled it up now, keen to find out where the woman was. It went straight to voicemail. No personal greeting, just an automated voice urging her to leave a message. So she did, ending the call and glancing around.
Concluding that the car in the driveway didn’t belong to Karen Mortimer, but unsure whose it was, given that the property had stood empty for nearly two years, she decided to let herself into the house. The heating wasn’t working but it would be better than standing outside in the cold.
She put the key in the front door lock, frowning when it didn’t turn. Although she hadn’t been here in a while, she had been certain the lock opened to the right. Instead she twisted it left and heard the lock catch. Her frown deepened as she realised it was now locked. The door had been open already. But how?
Neither Cadwallader brother lived locally, though Olivia supposed they could have been back in town. They had no need to visit the house, which was empty of their mother’s things, and neither of them struck her as the sentimental type. The house was just extra cash they were waiting on.
Tentatively she twisted the key back, easing the door open. Was that a radio she could hear? Music was coming from somewhere at the back of the house, which suggested someone was inside. But who?
‘Hello, Mr Cadwallader, is that you?’
There was no response.
Unease prickled her scalp and the back of her neck. Although there were other houses in the street, they were all set apart with wide gardens that offered privacy. 8 Honington Lane was many things; old-fashioned, dilapidated and unloved, but this was the first time Olivia had ever found it to be creepy.
‘Hello? Mr Cadwallader, it’s Olivia Blake from Dandridge & Son.’
Perhaps she should go back to the car and wait for her client.
A banging noise and the faint sound of music came from the kitchen, the door at the far end of the hallway. It had to be one of the Cadwallader brothers. They had the radio on and hadn’t heard her. Maybe they were finally heeding Roger’s instruction to tidy the place up.
Chiding herself for being stupid, she entered the house, choosing to leave the door ajar, glancing at the steep staircase that led up to darkness and the doors along the main hallway, all part open. As she neared the kitchen, the music got louder, the song recognisable.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
It didn’t sound like it was coming from a radio. The scratchy sound was more reminiscent of a record player.
She thought back to the note she had received and the phone call repeating the same words.
Everyone’s past catches up with them eventually, including yours. Soon.
What if it wasn’t an innocent, unfunny prank by Jeremy? The words held a threat. What if Karen Mortimer wasn’t who she said she was? What if Karen Mortimer didn’t exist? No one wanted this property, yet this woman had insisted that she view it today. And her enquiry had been by email, while the number she had provided had gone to voicemail.
What if it’s a trap?
Olivia hesitated, told herself to get a grip. There was nothing sinister here. She was overreacting.
The smell of petrol hit her first, the strong pungent odour clinging to the air. It was also coming from the kitchen and, as she neared, a muffled sound over the top of the Christmas song, followed by the scraping of a chair on the floor, had her ears pricking.
Her brain was screaming GO. Something was off, but her feet carried her forward.
She wasn’t prepared for the sight that met her.
The kitchen was dated with worn yellow metal units and an ugly pale blue worktop. Ragged checked curtains hung at the windows and door, and clashing blue and pink floor tiles completed the look. A portable record player was on the scuffed fold-down table playing the Christmas song.
One of the blue chairs had been placed in the middle of the room, and that was where her focus was drawn, to the man bound to the chair, lengths of chain wrapped around his body, holding him in place despite his struggles. His hair was wet, plastered to his forehead, his clothes were too, and his face was twisted in anguish as he screamed into the gag tied across his mouth. Both the legs of the chair and the jeaned legs of the man tied to it, were licked by orange flames that were rising fast.
For a moment Olivia couldn’t move. The distressing scream that tore from the man as he managed to spit the gag out, spurred her into action. She rushed forward to help him, but jumped back as the flames leapt out at her.
The heat and the sound conjured memories she had tried to bury. The overwhelming fear, as she tried to register what was happening, paralysed her limbs. As she watched, frozen to the spot, the fire took hold, completely engulfing the man. His pitiful screams rang in her ears and the stench of smoke, petrol, and burning flesh filled her nostrils as the flames incinerated him.
More memories surfaced, awful pain-filled memories that threatened to swallow her and made it difficult to breathe.
Have to get out. Have to get out now.
The instruction from her brain finally connected with her shaking legs and she turned and fled from the kitchen, down the long hallway with the half-opened doors, her frazzled brain not even considering that someone might be in one of the rooms, watching and feeding from her reaction.
She tripped on the large stone step down to the path, landing painfully on her knees, scrambled to her feet again, and leaving the door wide open, stumbled past the car and down the long driveway into the road.
A horn beeping, the rush of an engine and the screeching of brakes all sounded in her ears, but a second too late as hard metal slammed into her.
