Blood Harvest (33 page)

Evi turned from the window and sat down. The coffee table in front of her looked as if it had been smeared with fine dust. She heard the sound of the kettle boiling, of water being poured, the fridge door opening. Then Gwen returned, carrying a tray with two mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits. She stopped and looked down at the table surface, registering the significance of the dust.

‘Doesn’t seem quite right, does it?’ she said, without straightening up. ‘Should I wipe it down, do you think?’

‘I’m really not sure,’ said Evi. ‘Perhaps leave it for now. I’ll try and get in touch with that police officer before I go. I’ll ask him what we should do.’

Gwen bent down and put the tray on the floor. She offered the plate of biscuits to Evi.

‘I don’t think Gillian can be left on her own today, I’m afraid,’ said Evi, biting into a biscuit and regretting it. It was soft and lay like damp cardboard in her mouth. ‘I can call in again later when she’s awake, but she needs someone with her. If you aren’t able to stay, I can arrange for her to be admitted. To hospital, I mean. Maybe just overnight.’

Gwen shook her head. ‘It’s OK. I can stay with her. I’ll take her back with me tonight. I suppose we can put up with each other for once. Ruddy ’ orrible biscuits. Sorry, love.’

‘You’re not close?’ ventured Evi. Gillian so rarely talked about her mother, she really had no clear idea of the relationship between the two.

Doubt flickered across Gwen’s face. ‘We do well enough,’ she said. ‘Gill ran a bit wild for a time. Things were said on both sides. I expect you and your mum have your fallings out at times.’

‘Of course,’ said Evi. ‘Is there just you at home?’

‘Aye. Gillian’s dad died in a nasty car accident a long time ago. My second marriage didn’t last. But I expect you know all that already, don’t you?’

Evi smiled and dropped her eyes.

‘I heard they dug up some bodies last night in the churchyard,’ said Gwen, finishing her biscuit and reaching for another. ‘Bodies that shouldn’t have been there, I mean. Is it true?’

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t been told much about it,’ said Evi.

‘Little kids, I heard. Is that why you’re here? Do they think it’s Hayley they found?’

‘There was some talk of that being a possibility,’ said Evi, wondering how much more vague she could make that sound. ‘But of course …’ She gestured towards the coffee table, at the dust that seemed to be moving now, as though stirred by a breeze neither of the women could feel.

‘How could it be Hayley when Hayley’s been in a jar in the kitchen for the past three years?’ finished Gwen.

‘When you came in,’ said Evi, ‘Gillian was saying that the ashes weren’t Hayley. Do you know why she felt so certain of that?’

‘She always refused to believe it,’ said Gwen. ‘Even when the remains were confirmed as being human, she wouldn’t accept it. As
though someone else could have burned to death in the house without her knowledge.’

Gwen sat chewing her biscuit for a second. Evi sipped scalding tea and waited.

‘I sometimes wonder if it was my fault,’ said Gwen, after a second. ‘Whether I should have got help for her a long time ago. But in those days, we didn’t have any namby-pamby counselling rubbish – no offence, love – we just got on with it.’

‘You thought Gillian might have needed help some time ago?’ asked Evi. ‘Did she have problems at school?’

‘Just the usual teenage stuff,’ replied Gwen, putting her mug down on the carpet and brushing biscuit crumbs off her fingers. ‘Smoking behind the bike sheds, sneaking days off. No, I’m talking about what happened to her little sister. When Gillian was twelve. She must have mentioned it.’

Gwen was staring at Evi now. The lines around her jaw seemed to have hardened. Then she picked up the mug again and drank too much. When she lowered it, Evi could see damp splashes around her mouth.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Evi cautiously, as the other woman ran a finger around her lips. ‘I don’t think Gillian ever mentioned a sister.’

Gwen leaned forward and put her mug down on the coffee table. ‘You should ask her,’ she said.

‘I appreciate your advice,’ said Evi, ‘but we only talk about what Gillian wants to bring up. It wouldn’t be fair to spring a subject on her. If Gillian had a sister, I have to wait until she wants to talk about her.’

‘Well, you might be waiting for a long time,’ said Gwen. ‘She certainly never wanted to talk to me about it. But maybe you should know, especially if…’ She looked at the coffee table, where her mug sat amidst a soft film of ash. ‘Gillian had a little sister called Lauren,’ she went on. ‘She fell downstairs when she was eighteen months old. Someone left the stair-gate open – Gillian most likely, although she never admitted it. Lauren tripped over the bar and went from top to bottom. She hit the slate tiles on the hall floor. Lived for three days but never woke up. I never saw her eyes open again.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Evi. ‘How terrible for you both, and then to
lose Hayley as well.’ Another child had fallen to her death?

‘Aye. And after that, my marriage didn’t last long. John was the one who found her, you see. He never got over it.’

Evi’s mobile beeped. A text message. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, finding her phone in her pocket and looking at the screen. The vicar could text – after a fashion. Six question marks, followed by two Xs and an H.

‘I have to go now,’ said Evi. ‘Thank you for your confidence. I’ll pop back in a couple of hours. Gillian might be awake then, and we can decide what to do. Is that OK?’

A
T THE
CHURCH DOOR HARRY
STOPPED, ALLOWING THE
three officers to walk ahead of him. The reporters were still hovering. Rushton and the two detectives walked past them without responding to their questions and disappeared inside the Fletchers’ house.

‘Is it true?’

Harry turned. The tall, heavy-set man had appeared like a genie from out of the mist, had maybe even been waiting behind the church for a chance to catch Harry alone.

‘Hello, Mike,’ he said. ‘How are you and Jenny doing?’

‘Is it true? Did they find two other kids in Lucy’s grave? Both with their heads bashed in?’ Mike Pickup was breathing heavily. His face seemed redder than usual and the muscles around his jaw were trembling. ‘Has some sick bastard been using my daughter’s grave…?’

Harry put his hand on the other man’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There’s coffee in the vestry.’ Pickup showed no sign of moving. ‘I’ll tell you what I can,’ Harry added. It had the desired effect and Mike allowed himself to be led along the last few yards of path and through the open vestry door.

Harry’s inner sanctum had been invaded. Two police officers leaned against one wall, drinking coffee. Another was examining plans on Harry’s desk. Christiana Renshaw was washing mugs. The vestry had become the incident room.

Harry took a coffee from Christiana and nodded his thanks, then led the way into the chancel. He walked down the steps into the nave and stopped at the first pew. He and Mike both sat down.

‘I’m breaking police confidentiality by telling you this,’ said Harry, ‘because I think you have a right to know.’ The coffee had been brewed some time ago, it wasn’t that hot. Harry took two gulps, to give himself time rather than because he wanted to drink.

‘The remains of three small children were found last night,’ he began. ‘All of them appear to have tumbled from Lucy’s grave when the wall collapsed. One of them has been more or less identified as Lucy, depending upon the DNA sample, which I believe Jenny gave this morning. The identities of the other two aren’t known as yet.’

‘That little lass Megan, from what people are saying,’ said Mike. ‘I took part in the search for her. Didn’t do a scrap of work for two days. I had all the lads out as well.’ He put the mug down on the prayer-book shelf in front of him and fumbled in his pockets. ‘I felt for her parents,’ he went on. ‘I know what it’s like to lose a child.’

‘How’s Jenny doing?’ asked Harry, as Mike removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and sat looking at them.

‘She’s been closeted with her dad and old Tobias all morning,’ replied Mike. He tipped the packet upside-down; Harry could hear the soft pat of the cigarettes falling against cardboard. ‘Family confab,’ said Mike, turning the packet the other way. ‘Nothing to do with me, of course. I’m not much more than the hired help.’ He opened the cigarette packet, allowing the contents to fall into his hands.

‘Grief affects people in different ways,’ said Harry, surprised by the bitterness he could hear in the other man’s voice. ‘I’ve heard there’s a special bond between fathers and daughters.’

Mike held a single cigarette between his finger and thumb. As Harry watched, it started to bend. Mike’s eyes were shining. He was taking deep, slow breaths, as though fighting to prevent himself from breaking down. He began shaking his head. The cigarette in his hands was broken, useless.

‘She wasn’t even mine,’ he said. ‘What do you make of that, Harry?’

‘Not biologically yours, you mean?’ Harry asked.

Mike was still shaking his head. ‘Jenny fell pregnant shortly after
I met her,’ he said. ‘We weren’t even going out at the time, it was obvious it couldn’t be mine. She never told me who the father was. Just a silly mistake, she said, not even a relationship, except she didn’t want to get rid of it. I kind of admired her for that. But there was no way Sinclair was going to let any daughter of his be a single mother.’

‘So the two of you got married?’

‘Four hundred acres of farmland I got for my trouble. And two thousand ewes. I come from a farming family, Harry, over near Whitby, but I’ve got three older brothers. It was the only chance I’d ever have of getting my own farm. Irony is, I’d probably have married Jenny anyway. I was halfway to being in love with her.’

The mug in Harry’s hands was cooling rapidly, as though Harry was soaking up all its warmth.

‘And you accepted Lucy as …’

‘There was never any question of it. I adored her from the moment I first saw her. And after a while I forgot; I just forgot she wasn’t really mine. I never got over her death. If we’d had more kids maybe. Now, I doubt I ever will.’

The door from the vestry opened and two uniformed officers, a man and a woman, came into the church. They stopped when they saw Harry and Mike, muttered an apology and retreated back into the vestry. Mike watched them go, then stood up. ‘What happened to them, Harry?’ he said, not taking his eyes from the vestry door. ‘What happened to the other two kids? How were they killed?’ Two broken cigarettes lay on the stone floor.

‘The exact cause of death hasn’t been—’ began Harry, getting to his feet and stepping out into the aisle.

Mike turned to face him. ‘Don’t give me that. No disrespect, Vicar,’ he said. ‘You were at the bloody post-mortem this morning. Had their heads been bashed in?’

Harry took a deep breath. This had been a mistake. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to get drawn in. ‘There was some evidence of head trauma in both cases,’ he began, ‘but we really need to wait—’

‘Like Lucy?’ demanded Mike.

‘The pathologist thought the injuries could be consistent with falls,’ said Harry. Rushton would kill him.

‘Like Lucy?’ repeated Mike.

‘That’s really all I can tell you, I’m afraid,’ said Harry.

Pickup glared at him for a second longer. ‘I’m grateful for your time, Vicar,’ he said. ‘I won’t keep you any longer.’ He nodded at Harry and then set off towards the front of the church. He passed into the vestry and out of sight. Harry’s mobile issued three sharp beeps. He pulled it from his pocket. Evi had arrived at the church and was wondering where he was. He set off in Mike’s footsteps.

‘They’ll be leaving now, I expect.’ The voice startled him. Harry turned to see Christiana watching him. Her voice was like Jenny’s, only softer and sweeter. He didn’t think he’d ever heard her speak before.

‘I’m afraid the police will be here for quite a while yet,’ replied Harry. ‘It’s upsetting, I know. But necessary.’

‘Not the police. The Fletchers.’ She always wore dresses, he noticed. Tailored dresses, in fabrics that looked expensive. They fitted her perfectly and Harry wondered if she made them herself, like she’d made Lucy’s pyjamas.

‘The Fletchers?’ repeated Harry. ‘Why would the—’ He stopped. Christiana’s hair was loose this morning, held back from her face with an Alice band. It was long, past her shoulders, unusual on a woman in her forties. She was standing close to him now, closer than felt really comfortable, as though she didn’t want to be overheard. He could smell the old-fashioned floral scent she wore and was suddenly reminded of the day she’d scattered scented rose petals beneath the gallery.

‘So many little girls,’ she said. ‘Tell them to go, Vicar. It’s not safe here. Not for little girls.’

‘S
O WHERE DO YOU
THINK THE
CHILDREN WERE PLANNING
to go last night, Mrs Fletcher?’

‘That’s assuming they were planning to go anywhere,’ Harry jumped in, before Alice could open her mouth. ‘According to Tom, he was trying to rescue his sister.’

Evi watched the blonde social worker look down at the notepad on the kitchen table, gathering her thoughts. ‘Yes,’ the woman said, after a second. ‘From this mythical little girl of his.’ She looked up again at Alice. Her lips were a bright, glossy pink. ‘Have they ever tried to run away before?’ she asked.

‘Again, assuming they were running away,’ said Harry. ‘In my experience, children don’t run away in the middle of the night, especially when it’s pissing it down with rain. They go in the day, usually when they’ve been told they can’t have any sweets or have to tidy their bedrooms, and they rarely get further than the corner of the street.’

‘Exactly how much experience do you have of children running away, Mr Laycock?’ asked the social worker. Evi raised her mug to her lips to hide a smile. This was as far from a laughing matter as it was possible to get, and yet there was something about Harry in pugilistic mode that tickled her.

‘Does anyone want more coffee?’ asked Alice. Nobody answered her. Four mugs sat on the table in front of them. With the exception
of Evi’s, which was occasionally being used as a screen, none appeared to have been touched.