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‘Anything, Eleanor,’ he whispers. ‘Absolutely anything.’
Oh God. I move into him fast, sliding my arms around his shoulders, hugging him fiercely. ‘Thanks for not stealing it from me,’ I say mindlessly, and he laughs. But the sound of a heavy thud brings our moment to an abrupt halt, Becker freezing with me still in his arms. He looks towards the door.
‘What was that?’ I ask as he pulls cautiously away and looks down to the Grand Hall.
‘I don’t know.’ He paces to the door, wariness leaking from his body like a broken dam. He takes the handle and opens, but his movements are measured and thoughtful, like he’s trying to be quiet.
‘What do you—’
‘Shhhh.’ His shush is harsh and edged with anger, and his wary persona starts soaking into me, getting me worked up. I want to know what he’s thinking but I fear asking – not only because I’ll be cut short again, but because I’m worried about the answer. He’s wound up, stressed and hyper alert.
‘Winston?’ I have to put his name out there, maybe just to remind Becker that his burly pet is roaming The Haven and the sound was likely him.
Becker shakes his head, poo-pooing my reasonable explanation. Then the barking starts, like Winston himself is answering my question. ‘Shit,’ Becker curses, the sound of his dog going spare not seeming to rush him along. Instead, it makes him more cautious as he takes the stairs. ‘Wait there,’ he tells me, not looking back to check if I’m listening. I laugh sarcastically to myself. No way. I follow on my tiptoes, wincing each time Winston yaps. If there were intruders, surely Winston would have scared them off? What am I thinking? There’s not a chance anyone could get into The Haven.
Becker creeps down the stone steps, never checking to see if I’ve done as I’m told, but he does reach into a hidden nook and pull something free. A cricket bat? Or . . . a weapon. I’m certain that if I was to touch him, I’d have a sharp shock. He looks super-charged with energy, hyped up on anger. The sound of Winston barking rings on, and Becker follows it, edging down the corridor close to the wall before pushing the door to his office open cautiously with the bat, looking past it. When he carefully breaches the threshold, I know something is terribly wrong the moment the cricket bat lands on the floor with a crack.
‘God, no.’ Becker rockets forward, leaving me to catch the door before it slams in my face. I see him throw himself to the floor, and in a numb haze of unknowing, I step forward.
Then I see the cause of his distress.
Old Mr H is lying front down on the carpet by the bookcase to the secret room, the disguised door is open, and Winston is circling and barking by his side.
My hands come up to my face, cupping my cheeks, and my mind goes blank on me. There are a million instructions charging at me, but my muscles refuse to act on them. All I seem to be able to do is stare, feeling numb and useless while Becker shouts angrily at his unconscious grandfather.
‘Wake up, you old fool,’ he yells, but he doesn’t touch him or nudge him. He’s just kneeling at his grandfather’s side, his eyes darting up and down his body, like he’s looking for any sign of life, too scared to touch him. ‘Gramps!’ When his demands go unanswered, Becker collapses to his arse and his hands delve into his hair, his face pure dread. ‘Please,’ he murmurs, his bottom lip quivering.
The sight of him, so utterly distressed, kicks life into my frozen form. I rush over, dropping to my knees on the other side of old Mr H, my ear falling to his mouth to listen for any trace of breath. I don’t like his pasty, almost grey complexion, nor the nasty cut on his forehead. I take his wrist and feel for a pulse. A few seconds gives me something, and adrenalin soaks my veins and clears my mind. ‘Phone,’ I demand, holding my hand out to Becker, but he’s zoned out, just staring at his lifeless gramps. ‘Becker!’ I yell.
His eyes flip up. They’re glazed with shock. They’re haunted. We both know the reason Mr H is lying unconscious on the floor. He found Becker’s secret room. He knows Becker crafted the fake that Brent bought.
‘Give me your phone.’
He reaches into his pocket mindlessly and hands it to me. ‘Will he be okay?’ His words are emotionless and sharp. He’s shutting down.
I can’t answer that. I dial 999. ‘Ambulance,’ I say calmly.Chapter 36I’ve been sitting here for so long, I’m seizing up and bedsores could be developing. The smell of antibacterial solution is now embedded into my nose, and I’ve drunk so much coffee my mouth is furry. I feel grubby, tired and emotionally drained.
