‘We can’t sleep here,’ she said. ‘I’m scared more’s going to come down. God, and I’ve got such a load of meetings tomorrow . . .’

‘Maybe we should go downstairs, sleep on the sofas again tonight?’ Ollie said. ‘I’ve got an important day, too, we’ve got to get some sleep.’

But ten minutes later, lying under a duvet on the sofa that was a little too short for him, he was wide awake, thinking once more about the emails.

There was absolutely no way they’d sent them to the wrong recipients.

The more he turned it over in his mind, the more certain he was they’d not made a mistake. But at the same time, less certain. What kind of tricks was his mind playing on him? It seemed that since moving here someone else had taken control of it, similar to the way Chris Webb, thirty miles away, could take control of his computer through that simple bit of software, TeamViewer.

Was someone – or something – controlling his mind? Controlling it remotely? Making him see messages on the screen that weren’t there? Messing around with time inside his head? Making him see cracks on the ceiling that magically repaired themselves?

Making wallpaper fall off?

Caro sounded as if she was asleep, finally. He lay very still, not wanting to disturb her, trying to sleep too, but he was thinking, now, about tomorrow. Much to his surprise, Cholmondley had agreed to meet him – at his north London showroom. He would head off there straight after dropping Jade at school.

He had a headache. His scalp was pulling tightly round his skull, as if it was several sizes too small. He felt a vice-like grip in his chest, and his teeth were all hurting. And just like when he was a small child, he was keeping his eyes closed, scared of what he might see if he opened them.

This house, which he had thought would be paradise for the three of them, had turned into a nightmare he could not wake from.

And a nightmare that would not let him go to sleep.

It was all his fault, he was well aware. Caro would have been happy to have lived in a modest house in Brighton all her life, as her parents had. He was the one with the big ambition, the hubris, who had persuaded her to take the gamble and move here.

Now he was no longer sure about anything and, least of all, his sanity.

Shadows that moved; vicars who appeared before they had arrived; girls who were not there feeding ducks; faces in windows; cracks in ceilings that sealed themselves; a window with no room behind it.

And himself, who had always been fit, now out of breath at the slightest exercise.

That scared him more than anything. Maybe he should have a check-up. Could he have a brain tumour?

Occasionally he opened his eyes to check his clock radio. Time was passing slowly, incredibly slowly.

4.17.

4.22.

4.41.

He heard a click and stiffened.

Then Jade’s whispering, anxious voice.

‘Mum? Dad?’

‘What is it, lovely?’ he said, as quietly as he could.

‘There’s a man in my room. He keeps saying he’s my dad.’

Ollie snapped on the lamp on the side table at the end of the sofa, and saw his daughter, in a long cream T-shirt, looking gaunt.

‘Uh?’ Caro said.

‘It’s OK, darling,’ he whispered.

‘He says he’s my dad. He’s really scary. I can’t sleep, Dad.’

Ollie stood up, in his boxers and T-shirt, and hugged her. ‘Tell you what, lovely, stay down here with us – you can sleep on the sofa with your mum. Tell me about this man in your room?’

‘He comes in every night.’

‘Every night?’

She nodded. ‘But normally he doesn’t speak.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? What does he look like?’

‘Like you, Dad. I thought it was you. He said we should all have left, but it’s too late now.’

He hugged her again. ‘Is that how you feel?’

Jade shook her head. ‘I like it here now. This is where we belong.’

‘We do, don’t we?’

‘We do,’ she nodded, then moments later was fast asleep, standing up in his arms.

Gently, he eased her onto the sofa, beside Caro, who sleepily pulled the duvet over her daughter and put a protective arm round her.

Ollie lay down again on the other sofa, with the light on, listening to his wife and his daughter sleeping. Thinking again, as he had earlier. Full of guilt for bringing them into this.

What a sodding mess.

Ghosts.

Bruce Kaplan had no problem with ghosts.

Hopefully, after tomorrow, he would not either. There would be no ghosts here any more. Benedict Cutler would deal with them.

Lay Lady Matilda finally to rest.

And then they could get on with their lives.

It was going to be fine. Really it was. Exorcisms here might not have worked in the past, but hey, the past was another country, wasn’t that what they said? This was today, 2015. Peeps felt different about stuff, as Jade might say.

And this was their dream home. You had to try to live your dreams. Too many people went to their graves with their dreams still inside them. And that was not going to happen to him. Life presented you, constantly, with idiots. But, just very occasionally, if you opened yourself up to the opportunities, life presented you with magic, too.

They mustn’t lose the dream. He would make this house safe and happy for Jade and Caro. Somehow. They’d find a way. It would begin tomorrow. This house was magic. He listened to his daughter and his wife breathing. The two people who meant more to him than anything else on earth.

The two people on this planet he would die for.

52

Monday, 21 September

The Monday-morning traffic into London was shit, with the M25 and then the Edgware Road clogged, and it was almost midday when Ollie finally arrived at the swanky Maida Vale premises of Charles Cholmondley Classic Motors.

As he pulled into one of the velvet-roped visitor parking bays, he stared, covetously, at the array of cars behind the tall glass wall of the showroom. A 1970s Ferrari, a Bugatti Veyron, a 1950s Bentley Continental Fastback, a 1960s Aston Martin DB4 Volante and a 1960s Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. All of them gleamed, as spotless and immaculate as if they’d spent all their years wrapped in cotton wool and had not yet been exposed to a road.

On the way here he had managed to speak to his builder’s foreman, frustrated that his calls yesterday hadn’t been returned, and asked him, urgently, to have someone climb in through the tiny window to see what was there between the blue and yellow bedrooms, and left another voicemail for his plumber to investigate the sudden dampness of the walls in their bedroom. Then he spent twenty minutes on the phone trying to pacify Bhattacharya. He wasn’t sure he had succeeded, although the restaurateur had at least accepted the possibility of a malicious hacker – albeit one malicious to Ollie, not to himself. Someone with a grievance against Ollie, he told him. Very unfortunate, but was he willing to take the risk of someone whom Ollie had upset damaging his own business? He told Ollie he would think about it.

Seated in Cholmondley’s oak-panelled office, which was adorned with silver models of classic cars and framed photographs of exotic car advertisements from decades ago, overlooking the showroom floor, the discussion did not go so well. The car dealer himself was the very model of unctuous charm. He gave a reasoned explanation as to why he was not going to pay his bill, accompanied by expansive arm movements, and periodic flashes of his starched white double cuffs and gold links. However, he told Ollie, if he was prepared to waive this bill, in lieu of damages caused, he would be prepared to consider retaining his services going forward.