wind blew, the branches would wave and the leaves would dance. Then the sunlight made patterns of shadow and gold. And the tree trunks were white, like slender pillars along the paths.
In the forest, there was a clearing. And a man called Stanislau built a house in the clearing, a house of timber. And Stanislau and his wife Krishna lived in the house, where their first child, Marek, was born.
Stanislau planted trees in the clearing, cherry trees and plum trees, and he dug a deep well. The water that came from the well was clear like crystal, sweet and cool.
And Stanislau, Krishna and Marek lived in the forest and they kept chickens, and Krishna had a garden where she grew potatoes and cabbages. Marek gathered mushrooms in the forest, and they all picked the cherries and the plums that Stanislau took into town to sell. They were content.
Except that there were no more children. Marek grew big and strong, a happy boy with fair hair and a ready smile. And then, five years later, in the depths of winter, Eva was born. The last child, a little girl. The night of her birth, there was a storm that made the trees bend, the branches lashing through the air as the wind whooped and swirled.
Stanislau struggled through the forest to the village to find the midwife, and Marek stayed with his mother in the wooden house while the storm raged outside. By morning, the world was still and silent, and Eva lay beside her mother, wrapped in her shawl, and the snow fell for six days.
‘You have a sister now,’ Stanislau said to Marek. ‘You must take care of her.’
The winter passed and spring came to the forest. Marek liked to sing to the baby and tell her stories while she lay in her cradle under the trees and waved her hands, trying to catch the sunlight that danced in the leaves. And the time went by, and Eva began to crawl, and then she could walk, and Marek would take his sister into the forest where he could show her the trees and the birds and the animals that walked the paths, because the forest was vast and quiet–there were not many people, not then. There were foxes and squirrels and rabbits.
And the witch.
He taught her to beware of the witch who lived in the dark places in the forest.
The caller had stayed on the line long enough for a trace. The call had come from somewhere in the remote hills on the far side of the dams. It was a lonely place, used by walkers and picnickers in the summer, but isolated through the winter months. The hills tended to mask phone signals. There was only a small area in which a mobile would work reliably. The trace centred on the one building in this area, a house that was marked on the map as ‘The Old Hall’.
According to the records, the owner of the house had died recently, and it was empty, under the care of court-appointed executors.
The number of the mobile gave no clues. The house looked like the most promising location. There was a caretaker in residence and the phone was still connected. No one responded when the number was called.
But just after nine, before a car could be despatched, another call came through. This time, someone spoke. It was a male voice, incoherent with panic. ‘She’s dead! Please, you’ve got to…I didn’t…She’s dead!’ He could barely get the words out.
The operator’s training took over. Her voice became calm and matter-of-fact. ‘Where are you?’
‘The library. In the library. She’s…’
‘I need to know where you are,’ the operator said again. ‘We’ll get someone to you. Tell me where you are.’
‘It’s too late.’
The voice moved from panic to leaden certainty. For a few seconds, he was silent, and they thought they’d lost the connection, then he came on the line again and gave them the location.
The Old Hall.
It was after a car had been dispatched that the full details of the second call were checked. The first call had come through on an unregistered cell phone. It was a pay-as-you-go, and they hadn’t been able to link it to a name.
The phone on which the young man, half-weeping, had begged for help was not the same phone. It was later in the day that they managed to get a name for it. It belonged to a woman called Helen Kovacs.
Jake Denbigh checked the A-Z that was open on the seat beside him, and swung his car round the next turning, into a crescent where the houses were set back among the trees and behind tall hedges. He parked and got out of the car, checking numbers on the gateposts.
Marek Lange’s house looked neglected. The gate was open, collapsed on its hinges, pushed back against the overgrowing shrubs. The drive was rutted and muddy, last autumn’s leaves trodden into the ground. The front of the house was thick with ivy that obscured some of the upstairs windows. The ground-floor windows were under siege from privet and laurel that pressed against the glass. Lange must like his privacy. Jake rang the doorbell and stepped back, looking up at the house. Add a few thorns, a turret or two, and Prince Charming could hack his way through into the enchanted castle where the sleeping princess…
The door opened suddenly, and a woman stood there. She was short and thick-set, and her face was unwelcoming. The princess was out, but apparently the wicked witch was at home. Was this Lange’s granddaughter? It couldn’t be. This woman must be in her late forties at least. The daughter? Unlikely. He smiled and held out his hand. ‘Jake Denbigh. Mr Lange is expecting me.’
‘He didn’t say anything to me about it.’ The woman shrugged. ‘You’d better come in.’
Definitely not the daughter. Not the guardian relative at all. He followed the woman–who hadn’t introduced herself–across the dim vestibule where the stairway ran up to a half-landing. The house was cold, and he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. A man was coming down the stairs, moving with a slight shuffle.
‘Mr Lange?’ It had to be Marek Lange. He was a tall man, well built, but with the stoop of age. He was wearing a cardigan and heavy trousers. He had bedroom slippers on his feet. Jake held out his hand. ‘I’m Jake Denbigh. It’s good of you to see me.’
The old man settled his glasses on his nose and subjected Jake to a close scrutiny. His eyes were a faded blue and his hair was white, but still thick. His face was severe, but whatever he saw must have satisfied him because he held out his hand in response to Jake’s. ‘You are early.’
‘I thought the traffic would be worse than it was,’ Jake said.
Lange nodded once, accepting Jake’s explanation. ‘You would like coffee?’ he asked. He took Jake’s coat–which Jake was reluctant to relinquish in the chill–and held it out to the woman, who must be some kind of help, Jake decided. There was no sign of the guardian relative.
He declined the offer of coffee. He didn’t trust what might emerge from any kitchen run by the grim-faced woman. Lange opened a door and led the way through. Jake followed him. The room in which he found himself overlooked the back of the house. It smelled of dust and age, but it was large and well proportioned, with French windows looking out over the garden.
The garden was overshadowed by trees, except for a small lawn and a flowerbed close to the window. Lange gestured towards two heavy armchairs
