The Lost

Chapter 20

Jonah stayed a couple of cars back. The silver Vauxhall continued to head north through the outer boroughs of London with no sign of stopping. He wondered where the hell Dylan was going. Apart from anything else, the taxi fare would be costing a small fortune.

After a few more miles, the Vauxhall turned off into a street of large but run-down Victorian and Edwardian villas. A hundred years ago it would have been an affluent, professional neighbourhood. Now the once-grand houses were dilapidated and subdivided into cramped bedsits and flats. If Dylan was intending to buy drugs, this looked the right place to do it. Up ahead, Jonah saw the taxi indicate and pull in to the kerb. He drove past, then pulled in and parked a little further along. Angling the rear-view mirror so he could see the street behind him, Jonah watched as the Vauxhall’s passenger door opened and Dylan got out. The teenager looked around furtively, then turned onto the path of a large house, disappearing behind its overgrown privet hedge.

Jonah climbed out — awkwardly, because his knee had stiffened up — and retrieved his crutches. There was no gate on the path Dylan had taken, but wrought-iron gateposts stood at either side, rusted and crooked. The garden was long, overhung with old sycamores and horse chestnuts that had shed most of their leaves. The path’s uneven paving led past overflowing wheelie bins to a tall, four-storey house that still bore signs of its former grandeur. There were elaborately carved wains-coting and cornices, their timbers now rotting and hanging loose. Bay windows stood either side of the front door, one of them obscured on the inside by a pinned-up sheet in place of a curtain.

He made his way to the scuffed plastic intercom panel, its double row of buttons testament to how many people now lived there. There were no names, only flat numbers running from one to twelve, some of them barely legible. He was about to press one at random, hoping to bluff someone into buzzing him in, when the door abruptly opened.

‘Sorry,’ Jonah said, shuffling aside as a woman came out. She barely gave him a glance as she brushed past, trailing an odour of cigarettes and soup. Catching the door before it could close, he went inside.

The hallway was gloomy. At some long-ago point it had been decorated in various shades of green. Pea-green walls, dark green paintwork, and a swirl-patterned green carpet. With the only light coming from a small window on the stairway, it felt like being at the bottom of a stagnant pond. There were several doors on the ground floor, all of them painted the same dark green and all of them closed. The house was quiet, but as Jonah debated what to do, he heard a distant door open and close from somewhere above him.

It came from one of the higher floors. He considered the steep stairs without enthusiasm, then started up. The threadbare carpet threatened to snag his crutches with every step. On each landing he paused to check for any sign of Dylan. From behind some of the doors came the muted sounds of TVs or music, but all remained resolutely shut. Then, on the third floor, he heard the squeal of hinges behind him. Turning, he saw a single eye peering out at him through a narrow gap in one doorway. It stared at him for a moment, then the door was slowly closed.

He thought the next floor would be the last, but when he reached it there was another, narrower stairwell disappearing up to the attic. There was no guarantee Dylan was up there, but the door Jonah had heard closing had sounded high up, as though it came from the very top of the house.

With a sigh, he started to climb.

There was only a single door here, old and solid. It opened outwards, onto the landing rather than into the room, and two extra locks had been fitted. One above and one below the original mortice, stainless steel and expensive. The door frame had been reinforced as well, he saw, fresh drill holes every few inches showing where it had been screwed into the bricks on either side.

Pausing to catch his breath, he noticed there were black smudges on the door by the lowest lock. Footprints, and large ones at that, as though someone had tried to kick the door in. An attempt had been made to wipe them off, leaving the general shape still distinguishable but no identifiable tread pattern.

Jonah stood outside the door, listening. Soft sounds of movement came from the other side, but no voices. There was no spyhole for anyone inside to look out onto the landing, but he still moved to one side before he knocked. The sounds from inside abruptly stopped. Jonah knocked again.

‘Who is it?’

The voice was Dylan’s. It sounded high-pitched and panicked.

‘Landlord,’ Jonah said.

There was a pause. ‘What do you want?’

‘I need to check the meter.’

Jonah had no idea if there even was a meter in the room, but he guessed Dylan wouldn’t either.