They spoke at least once a month, so when he didn’t hear from Henry for a while, Sam started to get a little concerned. First, the phone calls stopped and were never answered or returned, but back then Henry still replied to emails occasionally. He was surprisingly keen to see pictures of the dog all of a sudden, and wanted to know every detail when his daughter’s home was redecorated after she moved out. Sam’s long-lens camera came in very handy on those occasions. But the author never used the same friendly tone he had before, and then all communication came to an abrupt end, along with his regular payments.
Sam had been keeping an eye on Henry’s daughter for more than ten years, and it made him sad when his relationship with the author ended suddenly and with no explanation. He drank more beer, ate more pizza, and didn’t buy the latest Henry Winter novel until the day after it came out, in protest. Sam had been a silent part of the family since Robin married Adam. He was there when her husband started having an affair, and he felt a bit down himself when they got divorced. Digging around in the dirt of their marriage was easy work, but that wasn’t the only reason why he did it for as long as he had. They were an interesting couple to keep tabs on: him with his writing, and her with a famous father, and a secret past. Sam had even grown rather attached to their dog, having watched Bob since he was a puppy. So he was genuinely sad when things went wrong for Mr and Mrs Wright.
When the daughter moved back in with her ex-husband a few months ago, after disappearing from the face of the planet for a couple of years, Sam decided to drive to Scotland and tell Henry about it in person. The author had always been painstakingly private and had refused to ever share his home address, but of course Sam knew where he lived. He might not have made it as a detective, but he still knew how to find out most things about most people.
Newspaper interviews with Henry Winter were rare, but Sam had kept one from a few years back. It was about where the author liked to write, and showed a picture of Henry in his study, sitting at an antique desk that once belonged to Agatha Christie. It didn’t take long for Sam to find out which auction house the desk had come from. Or to bribe a delivery driver to give him the address where it had been sent.
Henry’s Scottish hideaway was still harder to find than Sam could have imagined. The drive up from London was painfully long and slow, and without directions the postcode he’d been given proved close to useless. After driving around in circles looking for the mysterious – possibly non-existent – Blackwater Chapel, and passing endless mountains and lochs that had all started to look the same, Sam went back on himself to Hollowgrove, the only town he had seen for miles.
There was only one shop, it was getting dark, and Sam spotted the woman putting up a CLOSED sign in the window as soon as she saw him climbing out of his car. He knocked anyway, and she pulled a face that was even more unpleasant than the one she had been wearing before.
The woman opened the door and Sam noticed her name badge: PATTY.
She had a face like a carp and it was as red as her apron. Her beady eyes glared and she barked the word ‘what’ at him with venom-like spit. She was clearly a woman who was good at making people feel bad. Sam resisted the urge to offer his condolences for Patty’s sister, who he was sure had been murdered by a girl called Dorothy near a yellow brick road. But Patty’s distinct lack of kindness turned out to be very helpful.
‘Nobody has seen Henry Winter for a couple of years, and good riddance, I say. He fired his old housekeeper with no notice – she was a friend of mine. The new housekeeper used to pop in now and then to get supplies – odd woman with a sweet tooth for baked beans and baby food – but even she stopped coming to town a few months ago. I don’t know if I should tell you how to get to Blackwater Chapel. I don’t want you coming back here and blaming me if something bad happens. That place isn’t just haunted, it’s cursed. Ask anyone.’
Sam bought a bottle of overpriced whisky – he didn’t want to meet his friend empty-handed – and the old crow gave him directions anyway. When Sam gave her a ten-pound note to say thank you, she drew him a map.
Sam felt like a character in one of his favourite detective novels once he was back on the road. The phone calls from Henry ended around two years earlier – the same time the woman in the shop said the author stopped going into town. Sam didn’t know anything about a housekeeper, old or new, Henry never mentioned them. The only person Henry ever really wanted to talk about was his daughter, Robin. Their estrangement still bothered Sam, because it clearly made the old author very sad indeed.