Propping the roll of drawings against the wall, Connie went over to the small cupboard where the alarm was kept, and was about to open the door when she realised it wasn’t bleeping. She’d been so preoccupied coming in that she hadn’t noticed. The alarm pad looked normal, and the error light wasn’t flashing; perhaps her boss, Richard Bonaro, had forgotten to switch it on last night when he’d left. It hadn’t been her, she knew that much. She’d been on her way back from Oxford with the blasted drawings she’d just lugged in through the snow, on a train that had crawled along. She could feel the frustration returning just thinking about it: no buffet, no heating and no information. Fucking nightmare. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if she hadn’t been meeting Ed.
Heaving the roll of drawings under her arm, she began making her way up the stairs to the main reading room.
Connie’s official job at RADE, the Repository for Architectural Drawings and Ephemera, was archivist, but in reality she did a bit of everything – she’d even given the odd tour of the place, not that many people knew it existed. Somehow, RADE had ended up as a ‘hidden gem’ on a trendy culture website, and every now and then some intrepid Japanese students would ask for a guided tour. This had actually given her an idea, which so far she hadn’t confided to anyone, not even Ed and their good friend Mole.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Connie paused. The door to the offices was ajar. Perhaps that’s why the alarm hadn’t been set properly; all the main internal doors had to be closed properly before it would engage. Bonaro must have had one of his wealthy buddies over, pumping them for cash, and forgotten to close up properly – not realising the alarm hadn’t kicked in. Nudging the door open, she stepped into the small reception room. Off this was the main reading room, where she unceremoniously dumped the roll of drawings. She went over to her desk and shrugged off her coat before rolling up the blinds, revealing large French windows that overlooked the small square outside. Today, the square looked picture-postcard pretty, the trees covered in snow and hardly a soul in sight. With natural light restored, Connie began to make her way through to the small kitchen at the back of the building – she was gasping for a coffee, as her usual pit stop had been closed due to the snow. As she passed Bonaro’s office, to her right, she paused; she could have sworn that she’d heard a noise. The wooden floor in his office had a characteristic creak that Connie would recognise anywhere. Except Bonaro wasn’t due in that day. Who else could it be, though?
She stopped by the door and hesitated, before knocking gently. ‘Hello, Richard?’ Another creak. Someone was moving around inside. It had to be Bonaro, surely? No one else had the access code to the alarm apart from the trustees of the collection, and none of them would be here; they lived in a massive pile in Wimbledon and rarely set foot in the place, much to her and Bonaro’s relief.
Now she couldn’t hear anything and realised that she was holding her breath. This was ridiculous; no one could get in without disabling the alarm, and who would want to break into a place like RADE anyhow? She was just about to reach out for the doorknob when she heard another, louder creak. Whoever was in there was now standing right beside the door.
She knocked again, this time more forcefully, and grabbed the doorknob, giving it a good twist, only to find it was locked. She let go quickly and backed away, unsure what was going on. Why would Bonaro lock himself in his own office? Then she heard the key being turned in the lock and saw the doorknob moving. The door opened a few inches towards her, and she took another step back, wondering whether to make a run for it. Before she could decide what to do, the door was pushed open entirely and Bonaro’s startled face appeared.
‘Connie? What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Dropping off the drawings that I collected from Oxford yesterday. Jesus effing Christ, you gave me a scare. Didn’t you hear me knocking?’
Bonaro shook his head. ‘Sorry, no . . .’
‘I didn’t think you were coming in today, I thought you were a burglar.’
Bonaro looked slightly confused. ‘I was on the phone – I didn’t hear you.’
‘Why was the door locked?’ she asked.
‘Oh, that. I’ve had a duplicate key made and was trying it out.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Connie, wondering why he needed a duplicate. ‘I see.’
‘I left my damned wallet here last night,’ he said, patting his jacket pocket. ‘Good job, actually, because the phone rang as soon I came in. That call I was on just now, it was the executor of Helen Linehan’s estate.’
Connie frowned; the name was familiar and yet she couldn’t place it. ‘Remind me?’
‘Her family owned Marsh House – you know, the place by the river in Battersea? She died at the end of last year.’
Connie knew exactly where Marsh House was; it was the house next to Blackwater, where she would have been meeting Ed had she not been stuck on that frigging train. ‘What did they want?’ She tried to keep her voice even.
‘Mrs Linehan has left us some drawings of the house and garden.’
‘Really? That’s great news. Do we know how many?’ Her mind was racing as she spoke. ‘Or whether there’s anything else?’
Bonaro shook his head. ‘Only that it’s all in one portfolio, apart from a couple of journals. As to its exact contents’ – he shrugged – ‘they’re anyone’s guess. I doubt the executors have even looked.’
‘So there could be plans for Blackwater mixed in . . .’
Bonaro smiled. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, but yes, I suppose there could be. Regardless, they’ll be a significant addition to the plans we already hold of James Neville’s other hospital buildings. I’ve arranged for you to collect them next Monday at noon. There’s a family member there clearing the house. The name and contact number are here.’ He handed her a piece of paper torn from his notepad, then looked at his watch. ‘Damn, I’d better get going. I’m late. Dentist.’
‘I’m surprised it’s open,’ said Connie, thinking of all the closed businesses she’d passed on the way in.
He grimaced. ‘Typical, isn’t it?’
‘Urghh. Well, good luck.’
‘Oh, and there’s something I need to talk to you about tomorrow. First thing, over coffee?’ he said, pulling his office door closed. ‘Assuming I can still speak.’
Connie smiled. ‘Okay. Can you give me a clue?’
‘You’ll have to wait. It’s nothing to worry about though,’ he said, hurrying past, leaving a waft of Floris aftershave in his wake. ‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’ She listened as the metal Blakeys on his shoes clipped the stone stairs, followed by the echo of the front door slamming shut in the hallway. When she was sure he’d gone, Connie opened the door to his office and peered in. A box of James Neville drawings sat on the table, and she went over and lifted the lid: Neville’s drawings of mental asylums from the nineteenth century, the ones she’d painstakingly catalogued a year ago. RADE held all of Neville’s asylum designs, except the ones for Blackwater, which had never been found. She wondered who Bonaro had been showing them to, and let the lid fall back into place. Leaving the room, her thoughts returned to Ed – he really should have called by now, he knew how anxious she’d be – and a sickening feeling began to grow in the pit of her stomach. Please don’t let it happen again, she thought, as she headed to the kitchen.