Wish You Were Dead

  PETER JAMES

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  Acknowledgements

  For the Brown family – Debbie, Mark and Dani

  1

  Debbie talked to the dead. ‘Hello, boys and girls!’ she would greet them all at 10 p.m. every weekday, when she let herself into the silent mortuary, to clean. ‘Bet you wish you weren’t here!’ she would add. They never answered her back – well, at least no one had yet – and she was pretty glad about that.

  Her friends asked her how she could stand to work here. Didn’t it spook her?

  ‘No,’ she would answer. ‘The dead don’t bother me. It’s the living that do. They’re much scarier!’

  Although, in truth, with the flickering lights and the hum of the fridges, she was always just a little nervous in here. Which was why she liked to chat away, telling them all about her day and asking them about theirs. Most of them, she guessed, had had a pretty shitty day, which was why they were in this place.

  She counted from the names on the fridge doors. Eighteen overnight guests. Two more than yesterday. They lay behind the doors on racks of shelves, wrapped in white plastic. Their names were on tags tied to their big toes – except for the occasional ones who arrived with no feet.

  Debbie was nosey. As she went about her work, she always wondered what fate had brought each of them here. When she cleaned Mrs Grace’s office, she liked to sneak a look at the ledger.

  All the details were recorded there. The name, date of death, if known, and suspected cause of death, also if known. Mostly they were known. Heart attack. Stroke. Suicide. Fall from a ladder. Stabbing. Road traffic accident. And mostly they were short-stay, before going off to a funeral home. But a few, names unknown, were here for months. One, badly burnt in a fire, who they had nicknamed Crispy, had been here for two years.

  Tonight, she was on a cheeky mission. She had been offered a lovely sum of money – £500 – by Curtis, a dodgy friend of her husband, for some information. Not about one of the guests, but about Mrs Cleo Grace, who ran the Brighton and Hove City Mortuary.

  Mrs Grace was going on a family summer holiday later in the year. Could she find out where, Curtis had asked, pressing the cash into her hand.

  Debbie loved a challenge, and this one was much easier than she had expected. There, in a stack of papers on Mrs Grace’s desk, was a print-out of an email, with pictures, confirming her booking.

  Bingo!

  Checking to make sure no one was watching, she said, ‘No peeping, boys and girls!’ Then she took a photo with her phone.

  2

  If you ask, ‘Papa, how much longer?’ one more time, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace thought, I’ll throttle you! He glared in the mirror at his son, Bruno, right behind him, then at the satnav app. French names – towns, villages, roads. Every town, every village, every road. Except for the one road they wanted. Rue de Joigns.

  Was there such a road at all, he was starting to wonder? Could they have been tricked? Might they be victims of an internet con man? A crook like one he had recently locked up? Surely not? Could he and Cleo have booked and paid for a week’s holiday in a French chateau that they were about to find out did not actually exist?

  But of course it did! They’d looked it up on TripAdvisor, and it had loads of reviews, almost all positive. It was the rubbish satnav app on his phone that was at fault here.

  Roy had started the journey in their rented car – a Citroën Space Tourer – in a very happy frame of mind. He was looking forward to this summer break in a gorgeous house in northwest France – and to rare quality time with his family. It might be their last family holiday for some while, as Cleo was now five months pregnant.

  Yet something was starting to niggle him. It was like a darkness steadily rising inside him, just as the sky, loaded with rain, was steadily darkening outside. It was nearly 4 p.m. and it didn’t look as if there was going to be any evening sun today. The tall trees made the road seem even darker, more like night than a summer afternoon.

  ‘Papa, how much longer?’ Bruno asked.

  Roy caught Cleo’s eye and saw she was grinning. She knew how much Bruno was annoying him. Actually, annoying both of them. And she was also pretty sure Bruno kept saying it on purpose – just to really piss them off. It was something the eleven-year-old seemed to like doing. One day, Bruno could put annoying people down on his CV as his hobby.

  ‘Not much longer, Bruno,’ Roy said. ‘It’ll be great when we get there, I’m sure.’

  And it sure looked amazing in the photos on the internet. Château-sur-L’Évêque. A pool, tennis court, bicycles, beautiful grounds, deer park.

  Roy took his eyes off the road for a fraction of a second, to glance again at Bruno in the mirror. But all he could see was the back of his iPad.

  In the middle of their rear seat sat their delightful, twenty-eight-year-old Californian nanny, Kaitlynn, who had become something of a family friend. She was sandwiched between Bruno and their two-year-old son, Noah, in his child seat. Roy and Cleo had offered Kaitlynn and her boyfriend, Jack Alexander – a Detective Sergeant on Roy’s team – a free holiday. In return she would occasionally look after Noah while he and Cleo went out on some of the long bike rides they’d been looking forward to.

  So far as he could tell, Kaitlynn had spent the entire journey either texting or Snapchatting or playing games on her phone. She’d also said that she’d been trying to call Jack to see if he’d arrived safely, but hadn’t had any luck getting through to him.

  The rain got worse. This was France, mid-August, and a week of solid sunshine was forecast. So far, not a great start. Cleo peered at the map on her phone, also trying to find the road – she’d been trying for ten minutes now. Rue de Joigns. Then she shouted out, ‘Got it! About three kilometres ahead! The directions the chateau gave us say to turn left off this road, then the entrance will be four kilometres along on the left and we can’t miss it.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Roy said. ‘Well done, finally! Please God they can give us something to eat, I’m starving.’

  ‘We all are,’ Cleo said.

  Roy glanced at the clock – 3.45 p.m. ‘Try calling them again, just so they know we’re only minutes away.’

  ‘Roy, I’m sure if Jack’s already there he’ll have asked them to keep some food for us,’ Kaitlynn said. ‘I’ve texted him as I can’t get through on the phone, to tell him that.’

  Jack had had to go to Paris yesterday to take a statement from two French police officers for one of Roy’s cases that was coming to trial. He was going straight from Paris to the chateau, a 200-kilometre drive, and should have been there by midday.

  Roy and Cleo had planned to arrive by 1 p.m., to give them time to enjoy their first afternoon on holiday. But the early-morning Newhaven–Dieppe ferry had been late. Then the satnav had taken them way off track, making them even later. They’d tried calling the chateau several times. Each time all they got was crackle and a faint voice shouting, ‘Bonjour . . . bonjour . . . hello?’ Then the phone would go dead.

  As Cleo dialled yet again, Bruno announced, reading from his iPad, ‘Papa, Mama, listen!’

  ‘Yes, Bruno?’ Cleo said.

  ‘It says that next to being in a car, this is where you are most likely to die. Guess where?’

  ‘In an aeroplane?’ said Cleo, who did not like flying.

  ‘Wrong!’

  ‘Your kitchen,’ Roy Grace said.

  ‘Wrong, that is the third most likely place! It says here the next mostly likely place to die is on holiday. We’re in a car and we are on holiday. Doesn’t that make it probable we are all going to die?’

  Roy frowned. Bruno often came up with weird stuff. ‘So it’s lucky we’re not in a camper van, then, Bruno?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they have kitchens. So we would be in a car, on holiday and in a kitchen!’

  They all laughed.

  A few moments later, Cleo sounded like she was finally getting through on the phone. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Bonjour – pardon – bonsoir! This is Madame Grace. Hello? Hello?’

  Then she took the phone from her ear and turned to Roy, very cross. ‘Cut off again. Dead.’

  ‘Maybe the chateau is haunted?’ Bruno said. ‘Maybe they’re all dead too!’

  3

  ‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep,’ Cleo said.

  ‘Where’ve I heard that before?’ Roy Grace asked.

  ‘Robert Frost, the poet.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The woods were indeed very dark and extremely deep. Dense forest on either side of them. A creature – barely visible through the torrent of rain – shot across the road in front of the car.

  ‘Was that a fox?’ Cleo asked.

  ‘No, a werewolf!’ Bruno said.

  She looked warily at the forest. ‘Kind of spooky enough – I could believe it, Bruno!’

  ‘You’d better!’ he said creepily.

  Roy began slowing the car. ‘We’ve done over seven k
ilometres – you said we would see the entrance after four,’ he said. ‘Didn’t they say we couldn’t miss it?’

  ‘I didn’t see any sign, did you?’ Cleo asked, starting to sound tetchy.

  ‘Nope. We must have missed it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Dunno, but we must have.’ He stopped, turned the Citroën round and accelerated, heading back the way they’d come, the wipers working hard.

  ‘Papa, how much longer?’ Bruno asked again.

  ‘Done wee-wee,’ Noah announced, suddenly.

  ‘We’ll only be a few minutes!’ Kaitlynn said, soothing him. ‘Just a few minutes then I’ll change your nappy.’

  ‘I can do it when we arrive, Kaitlynn,’ Cleo said, then halted in mid-sentence and pointed ahead, to the right. ‘There! Look, entrance gates!’

  Roy slowed the car right down. Two crumbling stone columns topped with round balls. Slightly rusted wrought-iron gates hung wide open, each at a wide angle. A small wooden sign that he had to drive right up close to, in order to read.

  CHTEAU-SUR-L’ÉVÊQUE

  4

  ‘Seriously?’ Roy said. ‘This can’t be it.’

  Cleo was looking doubtful. ‘Hmmmn,’ she said. ‘That’s the name.’

  ‘So it must be,’ Roy replied, equally doubtful, turning in and heading up a steep, tree-lined and potholed carriage drive. ‘Let’s give this a go and see where we end up. But this can’t be a hotel drive.’

  ‘Darling,’ Cleo corrected him, ‘it’s not a hotel, it’s a chambre d’hôte – French for a posh guest house. Just the owner and his wife, who are our hosts. They probably don’t have the money to mend this drive – and they open their house just to make ends meet.’

  ‘Let’s hope that the house isn’t in the same condition as the driveway!’ Kaitlynn quipped.

  ‘I reckon the owners are serial killers!’ Bruno said, excitedly. ‘We’re all going to be murdered.’

  ‘Thanks, Bruno!’ Kaitlynn said.

  Cleo turned to him with a grin. ‘Judging by all the TripAdvisor reviews, there are lots of people who stayed here and didn’t get murdered.’

  ‘The owners might have written all the reviews themselves,’ he replied.

  The avenue wound left, then right, the car bouncing and splashing through deep puddles on what was little more than a cart track. At least the rain had stopped – for now, anyway. They crossed a broken-down bridge over a narrow, swollen stream, and carried on. At last, up ahead were two more pillars, again topped with stone balls.

  Beyond, in the murkiness, they could see the silhouette of a huge mansion, with a round tower at one end.

  ‘Is that it?’ Roy asked. ‘Looks far bigger than in the photos!’

  ‘Wow, it’s a palace!’ Kaitlynn said, peering up from her phone.

  To Roy, the chateau was grand but looked its age, just like the entrance and the bridge they had crossed. It stood on the far side of a circular driveway, with a fancy lake at the front. In the centre of the lake was a fountain, with a statue of a naked cherub – missing its head and an arm – standing on a huge seashell. But the fountain wasn’t working.

  Their tyres crunched on the gravel, and Roy pulled up in front of a grand porch, with steps leading up. It would be a lot grander, he thought, with a lick of paint . . .

  The front door opened and a mangy grey-and-white mongrel appeared, barking furiously, pulling itself down the steps by its front paws, dragging its hind legs behind it.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Cleo said. ‘That poor dog.’

  ‘This place isn’t quite how it looked on the website,’ Kaitlynn murmured. ‘Maybe someone touched up the photographs just a teeny, weeny bit!’

  Two cats appeared, and sat, like sentries, either side of the door. Their eyes seemed to glow yellow.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ Cleo said.

  ‘Give it a chance – we’re not seeing it in its best light, darling,’ Roy said.

  ‘Roy,’ Cleo said, ‘I don’t want to stay here. Let’s drive straight out.’

  Tired and frazzled after the long and difficult journey, more driving was the last thing he wanted at this moment.

  ‘What about Jack?’ Kaitlynn asked, anxiously. ‘He should be here. But I can’t see a car.’

  ‘He might have parked around the back or in a garage, Kaitlynn,’ Roy said. Then, trying to stay positive, he added, ‘Maybe it’ll look nicer in sunshine.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll look even worse,’ Cleo replied. ‘I vote we leave now.’

  ‘While we can!’ Bruno added in a sinister voice.

  ‘Darling,’ Roy said to Cleo. ‘It’s 4 p.m. and we’re in the middle of bloody nowhere. And we’ve paid everything in advance.’

  ‘I’d prefer to be at home rather than here!’

  ‘But Jack’s here!’ Kaitlynn said. ‘We can’t just leave him!’

  ‘Of course not, we’ll tell him to come with us,’ Cleo said.

  Before Roy could comment, the front door opened wider and a dumpy, rather stern woman stood there. She looked in her late forties and she was dressed in a drab summer frock and plimsolls. Her face was tight and pinched, behind large glasses, and her mousy brown hair was pulled back into a bun. She reminded him of someone, but at that moment he couldn’t think who.

  ‘She looks happy to see us – not,’ Cleo said.

  ‘We are a bit late,’ Roy replied. ‘You know what the French are like about food. They probably had a lovely lunch ready – as we’d asked for – maybe that’s why she’s looking annoyed,’ he said. He was trying hard to be positive, not wanting to start their holiday on the wrong foot. Although it seemed they were pretty well on the wrong foot already. Both feet, actually.

  ‘Like, it’s our fault?’ she replied. ‘And you’re right, Kaitlynn, this place doesn’t look anything like the images we saw.’

  ‘Maybe the website pictures were taken a long time ago.’ Roy shrugged.

  ‘A very long time ago!’ Cleo exclaimed.

  ‘I’ll go and say sorry in my best French – and explain why we’re late. Hopefully they’ll be able to rustle something up for us.’

  ‘Otherwise we can eat the dog,’ Bruno said. ‘It looks like it’s on the way out.’

  Ignoring him, Roy helped Cleo lift Noah from his child seat, and asked Kaitlynn and Bruno to grab some of their bags. Quietly, to Cleo, Roy said, ‘Let’s give it tonight, at least. If we don’t like it, we can leave first thing in the morning.’

  ‘If we’re still alive,’ Bruno hissed, overhearing them.

  Roy, carrying two suitcases, and Cleo, holding Noah, hurried through the rain and up the steps, into the shelter of the porch, followed by Bruno.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame, we are Monsieur and Madame Grace,’ Roy said, pretty much using up all he could remember of his schoolboy French. ‘We have a booking with you, I think.’

  ‘I am sorry, my English is not so good. You speak French?’

  Roy looked at Cleo, then back at the woman. ‘My wife – ma femme – can speak French.’

  Ignoring this, the woman said, a little frostily, ‘I am Monique, the Vicomtesse. My husband and I are your hosts. You are very late.’ She looked at them all, almost glaring at them. Then in French she added, ‘Nous avons préparé la déjeuner comme vous l’avez demandé.’

  Before her job in the mortuary, Cleo had spent a year teaching English as a foreign language to students in Paris. Translating for everyone now, she said, ‘The Vicomtesse says she had prepared lunch for us, as we had requested.’

  She turned back to the woman and said to her, in French, ‘We called you several times, Madame la Vicomtesse.’

  The woman replied tartly, also in French.

  Cleo translated for Roy, Noah and Kaitlynn. ‘She says no one called.’

  Roy frowned at Cleo. What?

  He noticed the woman’s unusually thick eyebrows. They were like two furry caterpillars, and again reminded him of someone, but he could not remember who.

  Cleo spoke to the woman in French again, her tone pleasant. Then she quickly translated. ‘I just told her we got through several times but kept getting cut off.’

  The woman seemed to thaw a little. ‘Ah, zis was you? We have problems with the phones today – from the weather.’

  ‘Say we also texted Jack Alexander to tell her,’ Roy said.