OWEN HEARS HELICOPTER blades breaking apart the air above the house. He opens his bedroom window and peers out as far as he is able. At this time of year, before the trees come back into leaf, he can see parts of the big empty space next to their house.
There used to be a mansion there called Winterham House. For decades it had sat with broken windows and ivy climbing up to precarious balconies, toppled chimney pots, graffitied walls, and overgrown grass. When Owen first moved into Tessie’s flat it was two months away from a demolition order. He’d watched in fascination as the whole building was dismantled and demolished, brick by brick, all the finery being taken away in vans to be sold as reclaim at vastly inflated prices, the bricks taken away to be put back into stock, everything else being broken down into components small enough to fit in the back of a pickup. It took about three months, and then the demolition people left and suddenly the dust stopped, the noise stopped, there was light through the trees and into Owen’s room, birdsong and foxes, meadow flowers every summer. Occasionally on warm nights Owen can hear teenagers in there and the smell of skunk wafts into his room.
One day a notice went up outside to say that someone had applied for planning permission to build a development of five luxury town houses on the site. Of course the whole neighborhood joined together to try to block it. In the end the house builder who had bought the site compromised with plans for a small block of flats, thus maintaining the maximum amount of greenery and space. That had been approved four years ago, but since then, nothing.
The open, verdant aspect from his bedroom has made Owen feel rather as though he lives alone, in a wilderness; the view from his room is nothing but trees; there is no sign of urban life to be seen.
But as he peers from his bedroom window now, he sees that that silent oasis is teeming with people. Voices call out to one another; radios crackle. He sees the suggestion of bodies moving across the open space while the boom of the helicopters overhead fades in and out. He assumes this is something to do with the missing girl, the one the police asked him about yesterday. He assumes it is his fault they are here, because it was he who stupidly mentioned the girl in the hoodie outside the house opposite on Valentine’s night. And he’s not even particularly sure what he saw. The night is a blur, a sped-up film that stops occasionally on a random still and then moves on again at high speed. He can barely remember getting into bed that night and had woken up wearing his shirt and one sock.
He heads out into the hallway. Tessie and Barry are already there, standing in the front door, watching the activity.
“They’ve found something,” she says. “Something to do with that girl they were asking you about, the one on the flyer.”
“What have they found?”
“They wouldn’t tell me. But they’re going to be keeping the road closed off all day. And they asked for access to the outside areas.”
“Of what?”
“Of here. Of the house. I said of course.”
Owen blinks.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, her eyes narrowed.
“No,” he says. “Why would I mind?”
“I don’t know. You might feel it was a breach of your privacy. Or something like that.”
“Well, it’s not my garden, is it? It’s everyone’s garden.”
“Yes,” says Tessie, “yes. That’s right.”
There are police in their back garden now, picking through the undergrowth, over the piles of rusty old gardening equipment that no one ever uses. He watches them for a while, trying to hear what they’re saying. He catches the occasional word but not enough to form any idea what they might be talking about.
There appears to be a smaller group of detectives searching in the vicinity of his bedroom window, at the back of the house. A flash of anxiety passes though Owen’s gut, and he heads back to his bedroom and closes the door behind him.
He hears a voice, close to his window, a man calling to someone else. “Here, look. Bring the flashlight.”
He catches his breath, stands to one side of the window, his back pressed against the wall, listening.
“Get DI Currie,” says the man.
He hears someone run off through the grass and across the graveled drive, calling out for the detective.
A moment later he hears a woman’s voice. “What have you got?”
Owen peers cautiously around the window frame. He looks down and sees the tops of three heads, a light being shone into the grass, a suggestion of rose gold glinting in the beam. He sees gloved hands gently parting the blades of grass. He can see the phone case being plucked from the grass and dropped into an outstretched plastic bag.
The air feels electric. Something is about to happen. Something extraordinary. Something appalling.
The helicopter blades spinning overhead sound like herds of heavy-footed animals through thick black dust.
Owen turns away from his window and collapses against the wall.