Free Deceit by Deborah White Page A

lives. But they couldn’t even find a birth certificate for Robert.
At least
, thought Claire,
not in the name of Robert Benoit and not in this century
. Claire hadn’t suggested they might look at a Nicholas Robert
Benedict
and check out a birth recorded in 1637. Or said, “I know that, because he’s my grandfather ten times removed and he’s been alive for nearly four hundred years.”
    All they’d found were business cards and letterheads in the study at Darke House. Did he have any living relatives? None had come forward. The police investigation had finally gone cold. And all that while Darke House stood empty.

    So now here Claire was, late on Tuesday morning when she should have been at school, standing in Ivybridge Lane, looking up at Darke House. The shutters were closed and the house certainly looked empty. There was litter outside the front door. The windows were covered in grime and the paintwork had started to peel. Robert was a clever man. He wouldn’t be holding Matthew here. But she had to make sure. And maybe there would besome clue as to where Robert was holding Matthew. An address, a phone number, a painting, a photo,
something
.
    There was a lane, just an alleyway really, leading down the side of the house and to the river. A high wall enclosing the garden and a wrought iron garden gate. She could see the box hedging, overgrown now, and the gravel paths littered with leaves. Roses were still blooming, but it had been two years since anyone had pruned them and they’d grown straggly and wild. The gate was padlocked, but she thought she could climb over. The swirls of wrought iron would give her good hand and footholds.
    But she hesitated. She felt spooked. It was as if the house had been waiting for her to come. She looked around. She could see people hurrying past the end of the alleyway. Hear the noise of river traffic; the slap and slop of waves against the riverbank. Smell the unmistakable tang of river mud, oil and diesel. But
that
was the world outside. Here it felt different. Silent. Watchful.
    She climbed over the gate as quickly as she could, only stopping when the lace of her left trainer got caught on a curl of iron. Then, safelydown on the path, she ran towards the back of the house. The gravel scrunched loudly underfoot and she couldn’t help looking up at the windows, half expecting to see someone standing there. But they were still shuttered. It would be dark inside wouldn’t it? The electricity disconnected and any alarm disabled. She could open the shutters a little at the back of the house, but opening any at the front would be risky. Lucky she’d thought to bring a torch and a chisel, in case she needed to force open a window.
    At the back of the house was a bay with sash windows. The shutters inside were closed and locked. No easy way into the house there, but further around to the side of the house, high up – she would have to find something to climb onto – was a small window just big enough to squeeze through, as long as she was brave enough to go in head first.
Don’t worry about that
, she thought.
Concentrate. Be practical. Stay calm
.
    She looked around… there was a wooden garden chair. She dragged it under the window and climbed up, balancing one foot on each arm of the chair. Standing on tiptoe she could just reach the window. There was no lock that she could seeand the catch looked old and fragile. Using the handle end of her chisel, she pushed hard on the window frame. To her amazement, the rusted metal catch gave way and the window creaked open.
    She pulled herself up, pushing off with a foot on the back of the chair. It was a tight squeeze, but she managed to get the top half of her body through. There was no going back now and so she wiggled until she reached the tipping point and the weight of her body did the rest. She slithered through and fell, right shoulder first, onto the tiled floor below. It hurt a lot and she couldn’t stop the whooshing sound as