Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (21 page)

Is that a tease or a serious invitation?

I
should be offended but I’m not. Instead I’m imagining myself in his darkened bedroom,
the two of us alone together. I look down at the ice chips melting in my drink,
and wish I could have some alcohol. But my appointment is in less than ten
minutes now.

‘Maybe
I will,’ I say, ‘one day.’

We’re sitting very close now. He reminds me even
more of a grizzly bear, squeezed into this narrow seat under the window, his
body too broad and muscular for the space. His long legs stretch out to one
side of the table, muscular in tight jeans. His eyes seem very dark, locked on
mine now and refusing to look away.

‘You’ve known me forever,’ he says softly.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

‘I know it looks bad, with the photo you found,
and me being arrested. But you know I had nothing to do with any of it.’

‘Do I?’

His eyes close briefly. ‘Jesus.’

‘I’m sorry, really I am. But I don’t know who
to trust anymore.’ I need to break the spell his voice is putting on me, and the
only way I can do that is with blunt honesty. ‘And I’m scared. That thing of
mine the police found … They said it was a message for me from the killer.’

Tris has opened his eyes and is staring at me
intently. ‘What kind of message?’

‘They don’t know what it means. But whoever is
behind these killings, it seems obvious that he can get to me if he likes. That
he
knows
me personally.’

Someone has selected a song on the jukebox that
reminds me of long hot Cornish summers when we were teenagers, still in school.
One of those mellow lyric numbers. I surprise myself by remembering all the
words to the chorus. What was I, fifteen, when it came out? Something like
that.

I
see him listening, glancing sideways at the jukebox like it means something to
him too.

‘Good
memories,’ I say.

He
nods slowly, then swears under his breath. There’s a tormented look in his face
when he turns his gaze back to me. ‘Eleanor.’

I wait, watching him.

Only he doesn’t finish. Out on the High Street
a police car rushes past to some incident, sirens blaring, blue lights
revolving rapidly.

We both look round to watch it pass. The song
on the jukebox finishes and another takes its place, more disco than ballad. In
the aftermath Tris seems to change his mind about whatever he was going to say.
He pushes aside his empty pint glass, and then gets up from the table.

‘Come on, time’s up. You’re going to be late
for your appointment if we sit here any longer.’

Reluctantly I grab my bike helmet and follow
him outside the pub. The wind is still sharp, nipping at us. He is staring
across the road at the local newspaper board outside the newsagent. BODY FOUND
IN WOODS.

I
shrug deeper into my leather jacket, trying not to over-think this. ‘Will you
come in with me?’

‘Take your time.’ The voice is softer this time, less demanding.
‘Can you tell us where you are, Eleanor? Look around. Can you describe your
surroundings?’

I tell her that I’m standing next to Mummy in the woods. She’s
dropped my hand. I’m staring up at the leaves, so bright with the sunlight falling
sharp and hot through them. There are birds up there, unseen among the leaves. I’m
breathing gently, listening to their high sweet song …

‘Is anyone else there? Anyone else in the woods?’

I’m wearing my new red wellington boots today. They’re so smart.
Look, do you like them?

‘They’re lovely. But I want you to look around, Eleanor.’ A pause. I
stay where I am, blinking in the sunlight. ‘Are you looking around? Good girl,
well done. Now tell me, are you and Mummy alone in the wood? Or is someone else
with you?’

I smile up at Mummy, but she’s not looking at me anymore. She’s
staring at something behind me. Her face changes. I don’t look back, but I know
there’s someone there. Someone coming through the trees. I can hear the crack
of twigs underfoot.

‘Look round, Eleanor.’ The voice is urgent now. ‘Look behind you.
Who else is there with your Mummy?’

I don’t want to look. I don’t like it anymore. I kick the dirt with
my wellingtons.

‘Is it a man? Can you describe him?’

I can’t look. Mummy makes me run. Keep going, keep running. I run one
way, then another. I’m not sure where to go. I fall over and get dirt on my
hands.

I don’t like this game, Mummy. I want to go home. I start to cry. But
I can’t hear her voice anymore.

Mummy? Mummy?

‘Go back, Eleanor.’ A long pause. ‘You go back, don’t you?’

Yes, I go back to see if I can find Mummy.

‘And you see someone. A man.’

I can’t find Mummy at first. Then I see her lying on the path.
There’s a man bending over her.

‘Can you describe him? He’s wearing a pair of white trainers.’

Yes, white trainers. I see them up above me afterwards. Flashing
through the trees. Like he’s running.

‘But now, can you see his face? Maybe he straightens up and looks round
at you.’

He doesn’t see me. I stay behind the tree until he’s gone. I only
look out once, then never again. There’s a bird croaking on one of the branches
above me, like a warning not to move.

‘But you see him when you look round the tree? I know it’s hard but
I need you to concentrate on the man, Eleanor. Can you describe his face?’

My hands are dirty. Nasty and dirty. There’s a cut from a bramble,
and it’s bleeding. I’m going to get in trouble.

‘No one’s angry with you, Eleanor. You’re safe here with us. Now take
it very slowly. Have you seen this man before? Do you know who he is?’ The
voice pauses. ‘If you can’t describe him, maybe you can tell us his name?’

I struggle against the questions, deeply afraid. A phone rings,
shrill and intrusive. To my relief the sunlit trees begin to fade, tilt into
the past, sliding away …

‘Shit.’

I know that voice but it jars with the dream
I’ve just left. I’m awake again now but horribly disorientated. My head is
aching. Where am I? My eyes open on the familiar dull surroundings of Dr
Quick’s office, the blinds shut against grey daylight.

‘I’m
sorry, Dr Quick.’ Tris is speaking, his voice deep and apologetic. ‘I set the
alarm on my phone to remind me of the time when the bus leaves. I forgot to
turn it off.’

Dr Quick ignores him. She is leaning over me,
her smile concerned. ‘Eleanor, are you okay?’

When
I nod, she helps me sit up against the cushions, then hands me the obligatory
glass of water. ‘Small sips, remember. A rather rude awakening, I’m afraid.
How’s your head?’

‘Aching,’ I admit.

‘Dizzy? Nauseous?’

I shake my head, then hand back the water. ‘I’m
fine. Thanks.’

Tris looks from me to the doctor. ‘Are you able
to … Is it possible to start again?’

Dr Quick glances at the clock. ‘Not now. A
pity, I thought we were really making progress this time.’

She goes back to her desk under the window,
smoothing out her dove-grey skirt before sitting down. Studying her desk diary,
she flicks over the pages for a moment. She crosses something out, then looks over
at me, brows arched.

‘Shall we meet again next week, Eleanor?’ she
asks. ‘Same day, same time?’

‘Did I remember something different?’

‘I’m afraid we didn’t get quite far enough today
to be sure. But maybe next time we’ll be able to break new territory.’

She writes my name down in the book, then lays
down the pen and meets my eyes, her expression serious but sympathetic.

‘It’s important not to rush these things, Eleanor.
Whatever it is that you don’t want to remember, it must be buried very deep in
your subconscious. It’ll only come out when it’s ready,’ she says calmly, ‘you
can’t try to force it.’

I
nod.

‘But
maybe next time,’ she adds, ‘you should come on your own?’

Tris
says, ‘Sorry,’ again.

I swing my legs round and stand up. Tris is
there at once, his hand steadying me. I look at him ironically.

‘Thank
you, Dr Quick. See you next week.’

I didn’t like her when we had those sessions
before. Maybe I was too young to appreciate her peculiar skills, but the
sessions felt so intrusive as well, I almost hated her for getting inside my
head like this. Now though I’m ready to go back into therapy, to see what my
subconscious can dredge up about my mother’s death. Even if I don’t like what
we discover. The truth of what happened that day has become too important to
me.

Outside, the clouds have set in for the evening
and it’s started spitting with rain. I’m going to get soaked on the way home.
We walk briskly back down to the Turk’s Head where I left the scooter parked in
a bike bay.

‘I’m
sorry about the phone,’ he says again, waiting while I find my bike keys.

‘I told you, it’s okay. I’m only sorry I can’t
offer you a lift home in this weather.’

‘The
bus will be fine. Or I could ring Connor, see if he’ll come out. We could
always go for a drink.’ He smiles wryly. ‘We hardly ever go to the pub together
anymore. The farm eats all our time, and our money too. It’s not been easy
these past few months. I’m sorry if we’ve both seemed a bit distracted. I
really do want to help with all this,’ he says deeply, and puts a hand on my
arm. His touch feels warm and comforting, and it’s hard not to give in to my
temptation to confide in him properly. ‘If there’s anything you need, you only
have to ask.’

‘There
is something,’ I say quickly, before he can change his mind. ‘I only ever
remember what happens in the hypnosis sessions as though in a mist, the
vagueness of my memory drives me mad. And Dr Quick doesn’t share everything
with me, she’s very careful not to lead me in any particular direction if she
can avoid it.’

‘You
were listening to what I said today though. Was there anything that sounded new
this time? Anything important?’

He frowns. ‘You said … there might have been
someone with your mum that day. Someone else in the woods. A man.’

‘A man?’

I
struggle to remember for myself. It’s so frustratingly unclear. Like a dream,
only half-remembered, not quite real. And just as fast to fade from my memory.

‘You didn’t see his face though.’ Tris grimaces.
‘That’s when my phone rang.’

‘Well, it can’t be helped. Like she said, we’ll
probably get it next time.’ The rain is getting heavier now. ‘Look, I’d better
go.’

Tris lifts his collar up against the rain.
‘Yeah, I’ll see you at the weekend, maybe.’ He turns away, then stops as though
hit by a sudden thought. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Connor saw in the newspaper that
there’s going to be a memorial service at the village church on Saturday. For
that woman we found.’

I
think of the Reverend Clemo at once. ‘Really? Whose idea was that?’

‘Not sure. Anyway, I wondered if you wanted to
go. With me.’

‘You want me to go to the memorial service with
you?’

‘It’s fine if you’d rather go on your own.’

‘No,’ I protest, and wince to hear myself stammering
in reply, ‘I … I’d like to go with you. I mean, yes. That’s a good idea. We
should both go. Together.’

Tris
nods, and strides away under the rain.

I
stand there, watching him, bike helmet forgotten in my hand, my hair getting
wet.

Sarah McGellan is
the dead woman’s name, I discover. Not from the police but from the national newspapers.
I find a few reports online and read them attentively, but details are still sparing.
Certainly there’s little information there that I did not already know. She
liked surfing, she was a popular young woman, nobody has a bad word to say
about her. Which is so often the case when a life has been taken violently.

The
killer is described as ‘unidentified’ and still ‘at large,’ and the public are
warned to be vigilant and careful when visiting the woods.

The
police released Denzil after only twelve hours, much to my relief. DS Carrick
dropped by the house to let me know. Denzil has not been in touch with me since
then though. I expect he is furious. And he has every right to be. But I could
hardly lie about the anklet.

Sarah
McGellan’s memorial service is organised for Saturday morning at Eastlyn Church
at eleven o’clock. Having been mentioned in one of the regional newspapers, and
on BBC Radio Cornwall, it is expected there will be quite a large turn-out, so
we decide to get there early.

The
vicar has already telephoned Hannah about the service, I discover, apparently
determined to invite the whole village. Only for reasons of her own, Hannah chose
not to pass that information on to me. But it seems she is happy to go with me
and Tris, so I get a lift to the church in her car.

We queue outside the church along with dozens
of other villagers and mourners, everyone in black, very sombre and formal. Even
Tris and Connor are wearing clean shirts and black ties; I see them ahead of us
in the queue, shuffling into church side by side, and try not to stare. They
both look good in formal wear.

Hannah
sees me looking at them, and nudges me. ‘What’s up with Connor and Tris? They
haven’t been round much lately.’

I
don’t tell her the truth, that Connor has decided I’m mad and he needs to keep
his little brother away from me. Instead I smile wanly, and say, ‘They’re very
busy at the farm. Still lambing, I think.’

‘Mmm,
I love lamb.’

‘Hannah!’

‘What?’
She tries to look innocent. ‘It’s tasty, is that my fault?’

‘Poor
little things.’

‘Whenever
I see lambs in a field, I want to shout, “Mint sauce,” over the fence at them. But
people would stare, wouldn’t they?’

‘Yes,’
I agree. ‘Because you’re a heartless fiend.’

‘I’m
a pragmatist. If the Great British Public didn’t eat so much lamb, most of
those sheep probably wouldn’t exist at all. We only have so much demand for
woolly jumpers.’

I
glance at the gravestones on either side as she talks, and repress a shudder as
I remember why we are here. My mother isn’t buried here, of course. These are
all old graves, most of them Victorian or eighteenth century. Her grave is a
short walk up the hill in the new village cemetery, a quiet plot near a row of
silver birches.

I’ll
walk up there and visit her after the service, I decide.

They seat us in the reserved seating at the
front of the church, as though we’re family, which surprises and touches me.

I
hesitate, then place my small wreath in front of the altar alongside the others.
Pretty white rosebuds and yellow freesias woven together in a green wreath by
the local florist. They smell gorgeous, which I feel is important.

My handwritten note says simply, ‘
I’m sorry. EB
.’

As soon as I sit down, Tris appears. He glances
at Hannah. ‘Hello,’ he says to us both. ‘Can I join you? Do you mind?’

‘I
thought you were with Connor.’

A
shadow passes over his face. ‘Connor wants to sit at the back. I’m surprised he
came. Last night he said he would be staying at the farm.’

It’s obvious he’s had some kind of argument
with his brother. The front pew is already full, but Hannah makes room by squashing
up to the woman next to her, who flashes her an irritated look.

‘Come
on,’ Hannah tells him cheerfully, ‘you can squeeze in between me and Eleanor.’

Tris sits down next to me on the unforgiving
wooden pew. Our thighs press hard together, and our eyes meet. Instantly I
imagine the two of us in bed together, and it’s hard to breathe after that.

‘Hello,
Ellie,’ he says to me quietly.

‘Hello.’

‘I
wasn’t sure if you would come.’

‘I
found her. It felt like the right thing to do.’

‘Me
too.’ He pauses a beat. ‘I thought we were going to come here together.’

‘We’re
sitting together now, aren’t we?’

‘You
know what I mean.’

It’s
hot in the church, and the temperature is only going to rise the more people
cram in through the doors. Avoiding his gaze, I run a finger round the back of
my collar, feeling uncomfortable and restless in the sticky heat.

‘Do
I?’

‘You
know you do. Now stop teasing.’ Tris is watching me, his dark eyes intent. He
whispers in my ear, ‘Perhaps we could go back to your place afterwards. Talk
properly, without all these people around.’

I
look round at him. I can’t seem to stop staring at his neck, the line of his
jaw, his broad shoulder pressed against mine. ‘Yeah,’ I mutter, aching for him
but not yet ready to commit to whatever that might bring later. ‘Perhaps we
could.’

Trying
to shake that heavy, languid feeling that is so wildly inappropriate in a
church, I turn my head, recognising the thick Cornish voice booming in the
doorway. The vicar is greeting someone, pointing out a half-empty pew towards
the back. He doesn’t sound very friendly.

The newcomer is Dick Laney.

The vicar
straightens, glancing towards the front of the church. I don’t look away
quickly enough, and for a moment our eyes meet. He stares, his mouth tightening.
Then he moves on, shaking hands with an elderly parishioner.

‘Where’s
Jenny?’ Hannah asks, also craning her neck to see who is here.

I
scan the faces again, but don’t see Jenny among the villagers behind us. I see
her parents though, and her gregarious friends who run the pub, Seth and Vi,
sitting together a few rows back on the left.

‘I’m
not sure,’ I admit, turning back to face the front. ‘Jenny told me yesterday
that she was coming to the memorial service. Out of respect, you know. But I
know there was a two-hour triathlon training session at the athletics club this
morning, so maybe she decided to do that instead. I saw a poster for it on the
noticeboard.’

Hannah’s
glasses have slipped down her nose. She pushes them back up, staring at me.
‘Jenny’s thinking about doing a triathlon?’

‘Apparently
so.’

‘Wow.’
She pinches one of her thighs. ‘You two are so sporty. I need to do more
exercise too. I haven’t been surfing for ages. Perhaps we could drive out to Widemouth
Bay together one day, take the surf boards, catch some rollers.’

‘That
would be fun,’ I agree. ‘Like old times.’

‘It’s
this admin job at the hospital that does it. I’m either stuck behind a desk or
doing paperwork over lunch in the café. I know I’m not overweight, but my legs
are getting decidedly flabby.’

‘You
are
not
flabby,’ I tell her
scathingly.

‘How
would you describe me, then?’

I
look up her up and down. ‘You are comfortable and sedate.’

‘Sedate?’
she repeats, mildly scandalised. ‘What, like the queen?’

‘Exactly
like the queen.’

Tris is reading through the Order of Service.
There’s a paragraph about the dead woman, written by her family. He reads it
out to me in a whisper while I run another quick glance over the rest of the
congregation.

The
church seems to be filling up rapidly now. Mostly villagers, but some of the
faces are unknown to me. I study the people in the pews near the front. Several
groups look like surfers, dressed respectfully enough in black today but with tattoos
and piercings, or with exotic beading in their hair. Friends of the deceased?
The surfing community in North Cornwall is very close-knit, even out of season,
and I know some surfers come back year after year to the same beaches.

There’s a buzz of hushed voices as someone
carries a last minute flower arrangement down the aisle and sets it down next
to the altar: white fluting lilies and tall green foliage. There are even a few
professional-looking cameras at the back, and someone setting up arc lights.

Dick Laney sees me and raises a hand in
greeting.

I
look away.

‘Ellie?’ Tris must have felt me shudder. ‘What’s
the matter?

‘Nothing.’

I turn and face the altar, sick with apprehension.
Are those national television cameras? I don’t think I’ll be able to stay calm
once the media work out the possible connection between my mum’s death and
Sarah McGellan’s murder. Which they almost certainly will. It’s only a matter
of time.

Tris squeezes my hand silently, and I flash him
an appreciative smile. It’s good to have him with me today. I can’t ignore the stolen
photograph, and the stamp on the dead woman’s hand, and seeing Tris at the
night club before that note appeared. So many arrows pointing at his head. And
piercing my heart at the same time. I can’t carry on suspecting him. It’s
wearing me out to keep Tris at arms’ length when everything inside me is dying
to let him in.

The vicar addresses the congregation, and
everyone hushes to listen to him.

I stare up at the large wooden cross while he’s
speaking. Then the stained glass windows around us. Jesus with a lamb in his
arms, fending off a wolf.
I Am The Good Shepherd
,
it proclaims. Sunlight glows through the stained glass segments, warm and
cheerful, making the whole scene brighter, the reds and blues more intense.

Her body is not here, of course, Presumably it’s
still in the police mortuary while the investigation is ongoing. I guess at
some point it will be released to the family so she can be buried.

Someone has set a large, blown-up photograph of
the surfer at the front. Her name is underneath on a vast wreath, spelled out
in white and yellow flowers.

SARAH MCGELLAN.

After my first glance at her photograph, I try
not to look again. But I can’t get her face out of my head. Not the happy,
windswept face smiling back at us from the photograph, which looks like it was
taken at Widemouth Bay around low tide, the horseshoe-shaped beach behind her
ablaze with sunlight. No, what I can see is the dead face in the dirt, soil in
her hair, one pale hand protruding from a makeshift grave.

I close my eyes, but she’s still there in the
dark of my head. Brooding, watching me. It’s almost as though she’s accusing me
of something.

‘You okay?’ Tris whispers.

I manage a smile for him.

I found you
,
I tell the dark presence inside my head.
Don’t
be angry.
I saved you from lying undiscovered
for months.

But Sarah McGellan neither answers me nor disappears.
Her accusation is like a weight on my shoulders for the rest of the service,
making me slump in my seat. There are prayers and hymns, then more talking. Kids
she taught to surf get up and say a poem for her. I find myself crying
uselessly.

Then the unlikely opening chords of a Bon Jovi
number fill the church. Her favourite music, according to one of the other
surfers. He’s a sandy-haired Australian in his thirties who climbs up behind
the lectern to talk about Sarah. I remember seeing him once or twice around
Newquay, one of those surfers from abroad who come to Cornwall on holiday and
never leave. In a shaking voice, he shares what Sarah was like as a person
– outgoing, friendly, a talented surfer, and generous with her time as an
instructor – and describes how he first met her. He’s in tears by the
time he finishes.

The Australian surfer looks pointedly at me as
he gets down from the lectern. For the first time I wonder what people are
saying about me. That I am to blame for her death?

Without being narcissistic about it, the most
gruesome things that have happened in this village do seem to revolve around me.
But that doesn’t mean I caused any of it. Or that I’m the murderer.

Again I am struck by the feeling that this is
some kind of witch hunt. That this must have happened in the past to women like
me. People got sick or died, then some scared villager pointed the finger at a
woman living suspiciously on her own. Next thing her neighbours were hanging
her from the nearest tree.

We stream outside
into thin, windy sunshine once the service is over. The atmosphere seems
lighter. People are talking more loudly, kids are running about, and some of
the surfers are even laughing amongst themselves. Only the sandy-haired man is
still crying.

I turn my face to the sunlight and push Sarah
McGellan’s image out of my mind.
I’m not
to blame
, I tell her.
I’m sorry about
what happened to you, but it’s not my fault you died
.