CHAPTER ONE
‘Would Hannah please come to reception? Hannah to reception, please.’
‘What is it now?’ Hannah dumped another bag of compost onto the growing stack, trying not to grouse. She still had a hundred jobs to do before closing time at six. She’d be glad to get out of this biting cold for a few minutes though.
Wiping her hands on her parrot-green dungarees that went with the sunshine yellow top to make up her uniform for the Lucky Parrot Garden Centre, she made her way back into the main building. The blast of heat that met her carried with it the sharp chemical smell of weed killer and fertiliser blended with the mulled spice candles on sale for Christmas. She knew which of those smells she preferred.
‘Hannah!’ Her colleague Katy rushed up as she stepped through the automatic doors. Her usually neat blonde hair looked dishevelled. ‘You’re just in time. The hens have escaped again.’
‘Don’t look at me for help, I’ve been summoned to reception.’
Katy’s look went from anxious to panicked. ‘But you’re the best one at catching them. You know what happened the last time we tried to catch them without you.’
Hannah had heard the story. Apparently, led by the ringleader Lightning Brow, the voracious hens had scratched and eaten their way through most of the young plants in the vegetable greenhouse before being noticed, and then moved on to see what they could find in the aquarium.
As soon as Katy and Co. had tried to round them up, the hens had cunningly split up. Half had gone on to wreak havoc elsewhere in the garden centre, while their sisters had provided a decoy near the entrance doors.
Once Hannah’s colleagues had found out that she had a knack for catching them they had given her the nickname, ‘Hen Whisperer’ and taken to releasing them if the Lucky Parrot was quiet. Just for the joy of watching her run around after them, Sam had said once.
Unfortunately for Hannah, the hen chase had become something of an attraction for customers too.
‘Squaaawwwk!’
One of the hens, separated from her sisters, probably due to her being distracted by some silver tinsel, went racing past, wings flapping as she tried unsuccessfully to take off. Sam was already chasing after her, arms out like some hyperactive zombie trying desperately to eat brains.
Rather aptly, the background music changed from soporific Bing Crosby to Rocking around the Christmas Tree. Hannah took in the chaotic scene and sighed. If she didn’t help, they’d never close tonight.
Another hen came zooming past, a piece of string in its beak, two of her sisters racing after her trying to snatch it.
‘Stupid birds!’ Reaching down, Hannah snagged one as it ran over her foot, neatly holding its wings close to its body. ‘Here.’ She passed the captive hen to Katy, who held it at arm’s length, her nose wrinkled up.
Sam had finally caught his bird, and Hannah made short work of another two. She spotted another hen at the end of the garden hose aisle, making a bid for escape.
‘Someone grab that bird before it gets away,’ Hannah yelled as she dived for another one currently racing towards the entrance. She hadn’t realised hens could move so fast until she came to work at the Lucky Parrot and seemed to spend hours chasing them down. ‘Who let them out this time? I’ll gut whoever it was and serve their entrails in soup in the café.’
An elderly customer turned to stare at her, eyes wide in horror.
‘Only kidding,’ she muttered, and kept running.
The hen she was pursuing, who struck Hannah as the hens’ ringleader, was affectionately named Lightning Brow, due to what looked like sandy little eyebrows above her eyes in the jagged shape of a lightning bolt. She was running with wild glee in her eyes, head stretched forward like a mini velociraptor. Hannah could have sworn she was laughing.
They sped past a mother and toddler who had also stopped in surprise.
‘Excuse me, pardon,’ Hannah said breathlessly.
Somewhere behind her Katy and Belle were clutching each other, smothering giggles, while Sam recorded the whole thing on his phone. By now she and Lightning Brow had become the main attraction of the day, and people were gathering to watch the show.
‘I’d better not see that on YouTube, Sam,’ she called out, her tone menacing.
No doubt sensing that capture was imminent, Lightning Brow scuttled under the largest Christmas tree, a real one that filled the air with the glorious fresh scent of pine and had pride of place in one of the corners of the main hall.
‘Aha, you little beastie. I’ve got you now.’
Dropping to all fours, her mousey-brown hair falling in her eyes, Hannah crawled underneath the tree, setting various bells and other decorations tinkling and jangling. Backed into the corner, Lightning Brow regarded her balefully with one eye, the other searching for possible escape routes.
Thankfully, Katy had stopped giggling and had come to help. She closed off one exit and stood there, legs akimbo, hands on hips, stoutly guarding the way.
Hannah grabbed Lightning Brow, who instantly made her displeasure known with loud squawking and cackling. She got one wing free and struggled madly, the Christmas tree rocking, branches waving madly. Hannah tried her best to contain the crazed bird, all the time aware that her bottom, clad in lurid green dungarees, was on show for the whole shop – and Sam’s camera.
‘Come here, you horrible hen, before I make you into Sunday dinner.’
This threat hanging in the air, Hannah contained her feathery nemesis with one final deft manoeuvre, and tucked her under one arm, using the other to reverse crablike from under the tree.
Applause and a loud cheer went up when she finally stumbled to her feet, hot and flushed from her little adventure.
Sam said loudly, ‘Hen Whisperer one, Lightning Brow nil,’ and turned off his camera. With the fun over, the rest of her audience dispersed, except for the toddler and his mum.
‘Me, me,’ the fair-haired little boy said, opening and closing his small hand.
Lightning Brow seemed exhausted after her great escape, panting but motionless between her hands, so Hannah leaned down.
‘Go on,’ she said encouragingly, ‘you can touch her.’
The boy beamed, reaching up to stroke the hen’s blue-grey feathers while his mother looked on with a harassed smile, clearly in a hurry to leave.
Behind her, a grimly familiar voice said sharply, ‘Hannah, where have you been? Mr Turner has been waiting for you in the office so long, he sent me down to see where on earth you could be.’
Hannah waved at the toddler as his mum dragged him away.
She turned apologetically to Camilla, her line manager, noticing with a frown that all her colleagues had melted away.
‘Sorry about the delay, but the hens got out again.’ She held up the bird as prima facie evidence of this. ‘All sorted now, so I’ll be right there. Though I’d better put Lightning Brow back in the coop first.’
‘No, you won’t. You can’t keep Mr Turner waiting any longer, he’s got another appointment in fifteen minutes.’
Camilla Turner was the owner’s daughter. She took her role as manager very seriously even referring to her father by his surname when she was at work. Perhaps even when she was at home too, Sam had suggested once, with his mischievous sense of humour. It seemed a bit strange to Hannah. But it wasn’t any of her business, after all.
Camilla’s blue eyes narrowed on her face, perhaps guessing at her thoughts. ‘Hurry along now, and take the hen with you.’
Hannah shrugged, leaving Camilla without further comment. The summons sounded quite ominous, she thought. In the background, the music changed to some sort of dirge-like Christmas song, as though to match her mood.
‘That’s not helping,’ she muttered under her breath, glancing up at one of the wall-mounted speakers.
But she made her way obediently enough behind the tills, heading for the main office, and tried hard not to consider why Mr Turner should suddenly wish to see her.
Nestled between her hands, Lightning Brow gave a quiet cluck of sympathy, as if even she could sense Hannah’s mounting anxiety.
‘I know, scary, huh? But it’s okay, I’m sure it won’t be anything … important,’ Hannah told her softly, then felt ludicrous, confiding in a hen. She clutched the bird more firmly. ‘Don’t you misbehave in there, you hear me? No accidents on the boss’s carpet!’
But by the time Hannah stood in front of Mr Turner, her heart was beating in double time, almost keeping pace with Lightning Brow’s. Under her palm she could feel the hen’s own heart going tic, tic, tic, tic in rapid succession. She faced Mr Turner across his desk, horribly aware of being dirty and no doubt smelly after a long hard day shovelling sand, shifting bags of compost and paving stones, feeding fish – and now chasing hens.
‘Ah, Hannah,’ Mr Turner began, shooting her an odd look over the top of his glasses. He always looked as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of her.
The feeling was mutual, she thought defiantly.
A large man in his mid-fifties, Mr Turner’s ruddy face was crowned with a ruff of wild white hair. All that was missing was a hat (to hide his bald spot, she thought mischievously) and a beard, and he would look for all the world like Santa Claus – until you looked into his eyes, that was. There was no kindly twinkle in those blue eyes, which were sharp and keen, and made it obvious how he had managed to diversify his farm so successfully, now owning several large garden centres across Yorkshire.
Mr Turner opened his mouth to continue speaking, and emitted a screech which turned into a train whistle.
The loud noise set Lightning Brow off, and she started to struggle, folded wings rising.
‘Oh, behave!’ Hannah told her frantically, to no avail. The hen had lulled Hannah into a false sense of security by being so well behaved, and Hannah had relaxed her grip rather too much. The hen now took advantage of this, giving Hannah a few difficult moments. ‘You naughty hen!’
By the time she’d managed to calm the bird down, she’d caught sight of Chadwick, the centre’s not so lucky parrot. That was who’d screeched. Not Mr Turner, who looked thoroughly flustered, adjusting his tie as he waited for things to calm down.
Rumour claimed that Mr Turner had rescued the parrot from an owner worse than death. All Hannah knew for sure was that they had matching bald spots.
Chadwick cocked his proud head and eyed her belligerently. She stared him down. He nudged his mirror, looked at her coyly and said softly, ‘Tart.’
Hannah couldn’t help grinning.
Wait till it’s my turn to look after you, she thought wryly, then we’ll see who’s a tart.
‘Ahem!’
Hannah turned her attention to Mr Turner who was regarding her with one raised brow. Oh no, she hadn’t said that out loud, had she?
‘The thing is, Hannah,’ he continued, ‘we’ve had our eye on you over the last six months.’
Oh god, she thought, staring at him, aghast! This is it. I’m going to be sacked.
Images of having to live off her meagre savings while she looked for a new job filled her head. She couldn’t afford to lose her job; she needed every penny of her savings if she was ever going to start her own landscaping business. Her mind whirled in despair, and only came back to reality when Lightning Brow made a little protesting sound where Hannah had been squashing her against her chest.
She caught his last few words with a sudden realisation that she’d missed most of what her boss had been saying. ‘And I’ve been impressed with your work here, and your dedication.’
Dedication? Impressed?
It took a few more seconds for the words to make any kind of sense. So she wasn’t being sacked?
‘God Save The Queen!’ Chadwick, hiding behind Mr Turner, began humming the opening bars of the National Anthem.
Mr Turner raised his voice a fraction to be heard over Chadwick’s musical rendition. ‘In fact, we’d like to offer you a promotion to Junior Manager. Of course, the post will mean some extra training, sometimes attending courses away, but it will also entail a pay rise.’ He cleared his throat. ‘In return, we’ll expect a three-year commitment from you.’
Three years?
Hannah’s original goal was to have started her own business before she hit thirty. She’d be uncomfortably close to that age by the time she finished if she took on this promotion. But on the other hand, a pay rise sounded miraculous. She could certainly do with the extra funds, especially to add to her savings towards a business start-up.
‘Um, thank you. I’m…I don’t know what to say.’
Mr Turner smiled, and now his blue eyes were twinkling and kind. An unusual sight in itself. ‘I can see you weren’t expecting this. There’s no need to give us your answer now, Hannah. Perhaps think about it for a week and then let us know?’
‘Thank you, I will certainly give it my full consideration.’ Hannah was opening the office door, hen in hand, when Mr Turner said, ‘By the way, I do like the seasonal arrangement in your hair. It’s very…modern.’
What seasonal arrangement?
Cradling the hen to her side, Hannah groped the top of her head and was mortified to find a strand of tinsel looped over the top and hanging down over her right ear. She ripped it off, feeling ridiculous, and found herself looking round wildly for somewhere to put it. There was nowhere. In the end, she shoved it into her pocket.
‘Well, you’d better get on,’ Mr Turner said impatiently.
‘Feck off, feck off,’ Chadwick shouted cheerfully and then screeched again, doing his favourite ‘train coming out of a tunnel’ impersonation.
With a rushed goodbye, wincing and now red with embarrassment, Hannah practically burst out of the office.
It was a relief to get back onto the shop floor. She marched straight to the hens’ enclosure, and thrust Lightning Brow back into her pen with a few rude words about her behaviour.
‘Are you ready to go?’ Katy called after her cheerily. ‘It’s gone half past five.’
Hannah nodded, following her friend to the staff cloakroom as the last few customers were bundled through the tills at top speed, and lights began to be turned off around the garden centre. She couldn’t wait to leave today. And not just because she was exhausted. She needed time to think over Mr Turner’s offer and find some inner calm.
Night had already closed in by the time the two girls had changed out of their garish Lucky Parrot uniforms and were walking home together along the frosty lane. Katy had her head bent over the lit-up screen of her smart phone, so at least Hannah didn’t have to provide any conversation. Just as well, she thought grimly, staring ahead into the darkness. Her brain was completely frazzled by the unexpected job offer, and she couldn’t seem to focus on anything.
The countryside was eerily quiet now except for the odd rustlings in the hedgerows and the sudden cry of a fox. Both of them quickened their steps by mutual assent. Their breath made smoky trails in the freezing air and Katy’s low heels clacked loudly over the frosty ground. A single star popped out overhead, winking down at them as though with sinister intent.
‘You can see why someone came up with the story of Dracula, can’t you?’ Katy said cheerily. ‘I mean, this is just the right sort of night for it. You can imagine the vampire lord, all tall and dark and bloodthirsty, lying in wait for some innocent Yorkshire maiden.’
Hannah shuddered. ‘I’m not very keen on vampires, thank you.’
‘Oh come on, think about how it would feel being crushed against a hard, manly chest, while your life blood was being sucked from your veins …’
Hannah stuck her fingers in her ears, grimacing. Thankfully Katy’s overly romantic view of being murdered by a blood-sucking monster ended a moment later when they reached her home, one of several old cottages set back from the road.
‘Night, then,’ she said, waving to the younger woman before carrying on down the chilly lane. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Only another half a mile’s walk, she thought wearily, and she would be home too. She was looking forward to getting her PJs on and forgetting about her day in front of the telly, or perhaps by continuing with the book she’d been reading.
Suddenly, a huge spotlight illuminated the hedges like some alien spaceship, and then she heard the slow thunder of a large engine. She couldn’t suppress a grin. It seemed her curmudgeonly landlord was out on his tractor again. Mr Smirthwaite spent as much time as he could outdoors, rumbling back and forth over his own land. Rumour had it that he was terrified of his nagging wife, so avoided being alone with her too much. Hannah didn’t believe it herself. She’d met Mrs Smirthwaite and got on very well with her.
Still, Hannah wasn’t married to the woman, so what did she know?
Moving onto the verge, Hannah raised a hand in greeting as Mr Smirthwaite came to a stop beside her. He put the tractor engine into neutral, reducing its roar to a soft growl.
‘Now then, Hannah,’ he said, greeting her with a curt nod. ‘It’s about time you were tucked up at home, lass. It’s getting late. There’s things about at night that you want no part of.’ His gnarly face scowled down at her, his tone disapproving. ‘Go on wi’ ye.’
‘Not far now, Mr Smirthwaite. And I’ll not be going out again tonight.’
The farmer put the tractor back in gear. ‘Sleep tight then, lass.’
Then he trundled on down the lane again, his bent figure bouncing up and down on the huge wheels, bright headlights dazzling cows on the other side of the hedge.
Home for Hannah was a one-bedroom mid-terrace cottage set between two empty ones that were in the process of being renovated. Old farm labourers’ cottages, all three were owned by Mr Smirthwaite. The other two had been undergoing renovation for years, and everyone had secretly given up on ever seeing them finished.
Hannah’s was habitable though. Affordable too, because of the inconvenience whenever Smirthwaite knocked the odd cupboard or window frame out of the houses on either side, and also cosy. Yes, it was true that the heating was temperamental, and the tiny kitchen needed a serious make-over. But it was her very own space.
Well, hers and Pepper’s.
On walking into the small cottage, the first thing she noticed was the Christmas tree. No longer taking up the corner opposite the television, it was now toppled over on the floor, pine-scented branches spreading everywhere. The angel was lying under the window, her hair looking exactly as if a cat had spent a happy twenty minutes mauling it.
‘Pepper! You’ve been at the tree again, you pest.’
Pepper raised his head from where he was curled up in Hannah’s favourite armchair, yawned, and then gave Hannah a sleepy, disinterested look.
‘Bad cat. Look at the mess you’ve made. And I told you, you’ve got to leave the angel alone. Or you won’t get any Christmas presents.’
Hannah straightened the tree as best as she could, but the branches had a distinctly lopsided look by the time she had it balanced upright again. As for the unfortunate angel, it had several more bald patches than the day before. Hannah fixed the traumatised doll back onto the top of the tree, and then turned her attention to other chores.
The cottage was freezing.
She crouched down to sweep out the grate, putting yesterday’s cold ashes in the metal bucket. Then she lit a new fire while Pepper wound his way around Hannah’s ankles, mewing his encouragement.
As the house was beginning to warm up, Hannah fed Pepper, despite his bad behaviour. ‘No treats for you, Mister, for a whole week,’ she told the cat firmly. ‘You hear me?’
But it seemed he did not, in fact, hear her. Pepper tucked into his food with a look of total unconcern. Hannah sighed and stroked his head, then turned on some music and poured herself a glass of Chablis.
Presently, she was sitting curled in her favourite armchair, much to the cat’s disgust, and eating a bowl of very tasty chicken and leek risotto. Her worried mind would not switch off though, constantly reliving the promotion she had been offered.
She was still distracted, internally debating the pros and cons of Mr Turner’s offer, when something caught her attention. Or rather, the absence of something.
If she turned her head, she could see the shadowy outline of the big old house right across the road from her cottage. Abbey Villa, as it was called, was a late Victorian Gothic monster of a house with a tower on one side, like something out of a horror movie. Some people called it beautiful. But Hannah thought it looked like a gargoyle, crouched in front of a tall, unruly stand of trees that were home to a large number of rooks.
A parliament, Ivy had once corrected her, for her elderly neighbour was surprisingly proud of her feathered friends, despite the mess they made on her roof and driveway. Apparently, the collective noun for rooks was a parliament.
Hannah often thought they would have been better named a ‘sinister’ of rooks, the birds looked so dark and forbidding in their high nests. On the other hand, perhaps a ‘parliament’ was a good choice given all the pointless ruckus they made, waking Hannah up early some mornings with hoarse cries that would put even Chadwick to shame.
Tonight though, the big house stood dark and silent, which made her frown and stand up, putting aside her now-empty bowl of risotto.
Something was wrong.
This was the second night that Ivy had not put the lights on in her front windows, and Ivy always kept several lights on downstairs, even when she was not at home. The fairy lights covering the large ornamental cherry in the front garden were off too, which was perhaps stranger, given how much Ivy loved Christmas and its bright decorations.
Hannah picked up the phone handset and dialled Ivy’s number. But Ivy’s phone rang and rang, and no-one picked up.
Suddenly worried about the acerbic old lady, she tried her number again, but with the same result.
It was a pity Ivy refused to have a mobile phone but Hannah had never been able to persuade her of their benefits. Ivy had listened patiently to her arguments, and then said, ‘Well, dear, it’s all very well but I have absolutely no interest in being reachable twenty-four hours a day. If I don’t answer the phone, it’s because I don’t feel like talking. And at my age, I think I’m entitled to be incognito on occasion.’
Still concerned, Hannah rang her number again. This time, she left a message, asking Ivy to get in touch. If she didn’t ring by tomorrow night and the lights were still off, she would go over the road and have a look.
She hesitated. Perhaps she should go over there now to check everything was okay.
Then again, perhaps she should mind her own business.
If Ivy was well, she would be pretty cross if Hannah went storming over there, just because the lights were out. Hannah liked Ivy but there was a small part of her that found the old lady scary. Tall and slender, with ramrod-straight posture, she looked frail enough. Yet she had a core of steel and a tongue like a blade. Hannah would rather chase hens all day and have Sam put the humiliating videos on YouTube, making her the laughing stock of the internet, than risk Ivy’s displeasure.
She could just imagine the old lady’s caustic response. ‘Interfering again, are we? Your curiosity is a form of vanity and you’d do well to remember that. Curiosity never served anyone a good turn.’ Hannah could virtually hear Ivy’s starchy tones.
Perhaps Ivy had simply gone to bed early.
Sometimes Hannah had been known to go to bed early herself.
When she was sick, for instance.
Hannah stared across at the dark house, holding her breath as she ran through the various possibilities. What if Ivy really was sick? Or hurt, even? What if something bad had happened, and nobody knew about it?
On second thoughts, she really ought to go over and check.
The worst that could happen was that Ivy would yell at her. And she was used to being yelled at. By Chadwick, at least.
Pulling on her coat and wrapping a thick, woollen scarf about her throat, Hannah opened her front door, which creaked loudly in the misty quiet. Those hinges need some oil, she thought testily, hesitating on the threshold.
Across the road stood Abbey Villa, silent and desolate beneath tall, rook-infested trees. She studied it intently for a moment, her imagination already racing away from her. Just looking at the old place gave her the heebie-jeebies. Without Ivy’s jolly Christmas lights flashing in welcome, the front windows of the house seemed like deep-set eyes watching her from under a dark hood.
‘You know, Pepper,’ she said, reluctantly leaving the warmth of her cosy living room as she pulled the front door shut behind her, ‘it’s at times like these that I wish you were a very large dog.’
Curious to know what was going on, Pepper had followed her out, tail in the air, but now abandoned her to go off and hunt for mice under the bushes.
‘Thanks for your support,’ Hannah called after him drily.
The gravel at the front of the house made comforting, everyday crunching noises as Hannah approached the dark house.
She lifted the heavy door knocker and banged on the door once, then twice. It was loud enough to raise the dead, Hannah thought superstitiously, wishing she’d grabbed her gloves on the way out. Not only was it damn chilly, but the metal knocker was freezing her fingers. She listened for several minutes, but Ivy did not come to the door and the house remained dark, no lights on anywhere.
Bending down, she peered through the letter box. As soon as she lifted the flap, a piece of paper dropped to the mat in front of her.
Hannah frowned. It looked to be a note of some kind. Using her phone screen for light, she picked it up and read: No milk until further notice.
Well, that was her mystery solved. Ivy had gone away. Simple as that.
Except that she usually came across to tell Hannah when she was going to be away for any length of time. She was very careful about security, and sometimes left a spare key with Hannah in case of emergency. But perhaps she had left in a hurry.
There was nothing more she could do other than go home. Hands tucked deep into her pockets, chin into her scarf, she quickened her step as it started to rain, a driving sleety rain that a sudden gust of wind turned to icy needles.
She got home just in time. As she locked the door behind her, she heard the rain intensify and realised a wintry storm was on its way.
Pepper shot through the cat flap, all his fur on end. Seconds later, a flash of lightning ripped the sky apart, followed closely by a slow, menacing roll of thunder.
‘Nearly got you, did it?’ she said to the cat, grinning, then turned to draw the curtains against the storm. Gripping the curtains in both hands, she hesitated as a glow of light down the lane caught her attention.
She glanced at the mantel clock. It was rather late for visitors to the Smirthwaites’ farm, and the lane didn’t go anywhere else.
Pressing her face close to the glass, Hannah wondered if it could be Ivy on her way back. The headlights came nearer, intrusive, dazzling her.
She shrank back, pulling the curtains partially across, then squinted nosily through the gap. How very odd. Those headlights were too low for Mr Smirthwaite’s tractor, and Ivy didn’t own a car. She booked the same local taxi every time she wanted to go out, and over the rain Hannah could hear the sexy growl of an engine that was definitely not John’s taxi!
As she watched, the sleek black outline of a car materialised out of the rain. It drove slowly past her cottage and turned in through the gateposts of Abbey Villa. Hannah could not see who was inside, for there was not even the spooky glow of a satnav or dashboard light before the car swept up the drive.
The car stopped close to Ivy’s front door, and then the driver’s door was flung open. A tall, dark shadow climbed out, and straightened, looking up at the house.
‘Hullo,’ she said to herself rather than the cat, who was already back in his basket, licking his fur in an aggrieved fashion. ‘Who’s this, then?’
For a moment, the shadow stood there motionless. Then lightning ripped the sky apart, and in that bright flash Hannah got a sense of angular, forbidding lines and a swirling black cloak before darkness fell again, thunder rolling heavily in the background.
Shadow Man moved around to the boot, and dragged out a large suitcase. Carrying it effortlessly to the front door, he let himself into Ivy’s house.
With a key!
Hannah snapped her curtains shut and stood still, heart pounding, eyes wide, utterly betwattled by what she had just witnessed.
What on earth was going on?