Free The Hidden Girl by Louise Millar Page A

middle of nowhere?’
    Too late she realized how rude it was to call Tornley – Dax’s home – ‘nowhere’.
    ‘No. Foreigner most like; come yesterday morning, get a head-start on the seasonal work. They come around now, the early ones – get the land ready for planting. Bet he wasn’t expecting snow, though!’ Dax chortled. He pulled a hammer out of his toolbelt, then a nail.
    Hannah picked up the crisp packets and dirty socks, trying not to breathe. ‘But don’t the farmers give them accommodation?’
    He nodded. ‘If they come here legal with the agency, they do. They got caravans for ’em. Some don’t want to pay rent, though. Or they’s illegal. Old Samuel had two in his tyre-shed, summer gone. Buggers had a bloody gas stove and all. Could’ve gone up.’
    Hannah looked at the red blanket and recalled the crisp packets in the garage. Had farm workers been sleeping in there, too? Before she realized what Dax was doing, he nailed the window shut.
    ‘Oh . . .’ Hannah started. But it was too late. Dax pulled out another nail and did the other side, then stood back.
    She tempered her dismay at the nail-holes in the original Victorian wood with the knowledge that at least the intruder was locked out.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Actually that might explain it – there was stuff in the garage, too.’
    Dax nodded. ‘That’ll be it. House’s been empty two . . . three . . . year, right? Probably been a few of them ’ere. This one won’t be back. Knows you’re ’ere now. Probably gave him the fright of his bloody life!’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Oh yeah. That type don’t want trouble with the police.’ Dax put his hammer back in his belt. ‘Right.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Boiler.’ He marched off towards the kitchen, as if it was completely normal to find someone in your house, and he now had better things to do.
    ‘Dax, do you know Tornley Hall?’ Hannah called. Nervously she peeked into the dining room and the understairs toilet.
    Dax ignored her. In the kitchen he opened the boiler, twiddled a knob and pulled his overall sleeves up to his elbows. He had those big, solid forearms of men who work with their hands, not at a computer like the men she knew in London. Dax stood back.
    ‘Can you fix it?’
    He made a face. ‘If I was a plumber, I might.’
    ‘Oh. You’re not?’
    Dax ignored her and stalked off again, with that full-power energy of a man who works outdoors.
    She traipsed behind, to see his big boots disappear out the front door, leaving a trail of muddy prints behind.
    ‘Put the kettle on, then,’ he shouted. ‘Milk, two sugars.’
    Knowing that, right now, she’d do just about anything to be reassured that the intruder wasn’t coming back, and to be warm again, Hannah did what he graciously asked. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she rang Will to tell him what had happened.
    His phone went straight to voicemail again.
    He must have woken early in the studio and started work. She prayed he’d find a way to return this afternoon.
    Hannah looked at the phone, wondering if she should ring the police, despite what Dax said.
    Barbara came to mind again. What would Barbara say if she knew Will and Hannah had had a break-in, three days after moving in? It wasn’t exactly the safe, perfect family home environment she was expecting.
    She put down the phone.
    If she reported it as a crime, would Barbara stumble on the police report if she did a home check on Tornley Hall in the next few weeks? Would it be concealment, if Hannah didn’t tell her? Hannah turned to make tea, frustrated. In fifteen years in London she’d never seen a gun or had a break-in. Here, she’d experienced both within three days.
    The front door banged. She took the tea to the hall. Dax held an armful of logs.
    ‘Oh, OK,’ she said.
    Ignoring her again, he walked off into the sitting room.
    This man was making her head spin.
    Dax threw down the logs by the fireplace, peered up the chimney,