Page 1 of The Stranger in Room Six
Prologue
It’s an unusually warm summer evening at Sunnyside Home for the Young at Heart. Everyone agrees it’s the perfect end to the annual barbecue and how lucky it is that the rain has finally stopped.
‘What a beautiful building – such lovely period features,’ the relatives had marvelled, gazing at the original nineteenthcentury chandelier hanging from the embossed ceiling in the music room. ‘Did you know the house has been in the family for generations? And the grounds! As for the private beach, well really!’
‘I wasn’t sure whether to come,’ said another. ‘Not after everything in the papers.’
‘Me too,’ added someone else. ‘We’re still wondering whether to take Mum out, yet she seems so happy here.’
But they’ve left now, some in their flash cars or taxis and one or two on foot to the station.
If you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of the sea in between Claudette’s soft strains of George Gershwin’s ‘Summertime’ drifting through the French windows leading from the lounge.
Most of the residents have gone to bed – it’s 9 p.m. after all – but a few stragglers remain. We are the only two left in the garden, taking an evening stroll under the moonlight.
‘No one came to see me,’ says my companion, as I push her wheelchair along, past a burst of yellow and orange roses.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say, although I’m not.
‘You’re a good carer, Belinda.’
I’m used to such compliments. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
There is silence for a moment.
Then ‘What A Night!’ bursts out. The beat is faster. Louder. And somehow dangerous.
No one is around. This is my chance.
BANG!
The sound of the gun is deafening.
Part One
The Stranger in Room Six
I see everything in this rambling old manor, from conversations whispered in grand, mahogany-panelled rooms, to private meetings spied through diamond-paned windows.
It may have changed over time – today, the wide Victorian staircase stands tall, adorned with a Stannah stairlift – but this house has survived centuries, and its secrets with it.
Most people are here for respite care: old age, illness, injury. I’ll admit my own strength isn’t what it was. But despite appearances, I’m here for another reason – a mission far more complicated – and, like my fellow residents, I’m running out of time.
I’ve got a bad feeling about this job. If I don’t come back with the goods, I’ll be dead meat. And so will little old Mabel Marchmont.
1
Belinda
Fifteen Years Ago
Beads of sweat roll down Gerald’s forehead. It’s not an attractive look. In fact, I observe (as I have done many times earlier in our marriage) that it’s quite a repulsive forehead, full stop. Red and rather wrinkled, like a newborn baby. A leathery forty-nine-year-old one.
‘Nearly there,’ he gasps.
Oh, for God’s sake! Just get on with it. It’s not like he doesn’t knowhow. But my husband has always been so particular. Why hadn’t I noticed that before the children, when there had been time to get out?
His breathing is becoming increasingly ragged. ‘Come on, comeon,’ he urges as if he’s on a horse – something he’d never dare do in his life.
