Free The Hidden Girl by Louise Millar Page B

banged it with a big fist, then chucked twigs onto the empty grate, followed by four logs.
    As with the window, he wasn’t even asking her if it was OK.
    ‘Sorry, Dax, that chimney’s not been swept. It might go up . . .’
    Dax pulled a grubby can from his boiler suit and poured a liberal amount of murky liquid onto the logs. He threw on a lighted match.
    ‘Listen, I don’t think—’
    Fire exploded in the grand old Victorian fireplace. It was so startling to see a warm glow in this cold, bleak house that Hannah shut up. Even from twenty feet away she could feel heat pricking faintly at her frozen hands and face. The dank cream walls turned a pale, warm orange.
    For the first time since they had arrived Tornley Hall suddenly looked homely and welcoming again.
    She leant against the door. Dax kicked the logs with a hefty boot.
    ‘Thank you; that looks—’
    ‘Right!’ he cut across her.
    He marched past with more logs and set a second fire in the small fireplace in the hall. It too exploded into life, adding a warmth to the heart of the house. Hannah shoved Will’s boxes of vinyl away, then crouched by it, transfixed.
    Dax took his tea from the mantelpiece. His eyes flashed in the firelight. With his tangle of dark curls, he reminded her of some creature: a wild horse off the marshes. She was so used to office workers in the city being groomed and clean, to make themselves acceptable in others’ cramped company, that there was something strangely appealing about Dax’s honest work-grime.
    Suddenly his eyes creased up, pushing the oil on his face into his crow’s feet.
    ‘What the hell do you call that?’ he roared, spitting out his tea.
    ‘Oh, sorry, it’s the only sugar I could find. It’s muscovado . . .’
    Dax frowned. Before she could offer him something else, he tried the study door handle and, when it wouldn’t open, looked over and grabbed the key-ring from the sitting-room door. Without asking, he unlocked the study and walked in, cup in hand.
    This was her house.
    ‘You need to fill them cracks,’ he said surveying the walls.
    ‘Yeah, I know,’ she said, walking in behind him. Thankfully the study was both intruder-free and as well maintained as the sitting room. It was cosy and small, with that window seat that she planned to cover in a remnant of material for Barbara’s visit. ‘I will. But right now I’m just trying to paint it quickly, so I can get these up when my husband gets home.’ She pointed to the four record shelf-units clogging up the hall.
    Dax glanced sideways at them, as if he were eyeing up a secondhand car. He gulped his tea. ‘Where’s he, then?’
    ‘Stuck in London, in the snow.’
    Dax shook his head with a scathing grin, as if London was the most ridiculous place on earth anyone could choose to go.
    ‘Right. Come on then,’ he said, marching out of the front door.
    What now? She was starting to feel as if Dax owned Tornley Hall, not her.
    He booted the snow out of his way as he headed past the study windows, down the right-hand side of the house, and stopped at a wooden door.
    He yanked it open, revealing a stack of logs.
    ‘Oh,’ Hannah said. ‘Great.’ This wasn’t what she needed, but it would help.
    Dax felt the wood. ‘Should be dry. If not, stick that on.’ He pulled out the can and shoved it at her. ‘Go up like a rocket.’
    The can was sticky. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Sump oil – from the bike.’
    ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
    He looked astonished, as if she’d said something both stupid and funny, threw back the last of his tea and turned on his heel.
    She sniffed the can’s strong oily odour, wondering if this is why the sitting room smelt of fuel. Had Olive and Peter used sump oil to start fires, too? Was that what people did here?
    ‘Right then. Jim at Thurrup, he’s the plumber – won’t get down till the snow’s gone, though. His car’s a piece of shit.’ Dax stuck the cup in her hand, as if she was his servant. ‘Thank you very