Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (22 page)

DI Powell is giving a statement to journalists
on a patch of neatly-mown grass near the church gate. There are daisies under
his large black shoes, polished to a high shine.

I say to Hannah, ‘I’m going up to visit Mum’s
grave.’

‘Want
me to come with you?’

‘No,
I’ll be fine. Thanks.’

She
kisses me on the cheek, then glances slyly at Tris, who is standing beside me.
‘I’ll see you later then. I’m on another night, by the way. But this is my last
one. Back to the day shift for a fortnight next week. I can’t bloody wait.’

The sun is very hot, and I begin to wish I had
worn sunglasses, like the inspector. I move under the shadow of a churchyard
elm, leaning against the rough trunk. Tris comes to join me and I smile at him,
remembering how close we were sitting in church, the heat of his body against
mine.

‘Hey,’
I say softly.

‘Hey
you too.’ He strokes a finger down the sleeve of my black blouse, his touch
making me shiver. ‘I thought you were going up to the cemetery.’

‘In
a few minutes.’

‘I
don’t think Connor will miss me. Not in the mood he’s in. I can walk up with
you.’

‘I’d
like that. First I need to speak to DI Powell, assuming he’ll agree to it.’

Tris
has been openly admiring my figure, but something flickers in his face at that,
and he raises his gaze to my face. ‘What about?’

‘I
want to know if he’s got any further with the investigation. It’s driving me
mad, not knowing who the killer is, or when he might kill again. Especially
given that he seems to see me as a target.’

‘No
one will lay a finger on you while I’m with you.’

I
tease him. ‘No one?’

His
smile is delicious and slow-burning. ‘Well, maybe one person.’

Again
I have trouble breathing, and force myself to stay calm. But I know my cheeks
are probably flushed, my eyes bright with desire. This is crazy. He’s high on
my list of suspects. But I can’t help being attracted to him. To pretend I
don’t have the serious hots for this man would be worse than crazy. It would be
total self-delusion.

‘Where
is Connor, by the way?’

‘I
expect he went back to the farm.’ Tris checks his phone for messages. The
screen is blank. ‘He’ll get in touch if he needs me.’

I
look across to where DI Powell is giving his outdoor statement to the press. It’s
impossible not to feel intimidated by the flash of cameras, the throng of
journalists pushing and shouting questions at the inspector. The reporters were
being held back before the service, cordoned off at the top of the hill by a
police line, out of respect for those coming to mourn Sarah McGellan. Now though
the street outside Eastlyn Church is packed with cars and vans, some with
famous logos on the side and satellite dishes on top. It’s not only local
newspapers that are taking an interest in this murder hunt, but national
television companies too. The story is starting to spread beyond Cornwall.

I look away, feeling sick. When will these
hordes of journalists find my address and catch up with me? I can’t seem to
shake those memories from my childhood of journalists hanging round the primary
school gate for weeks afterwards, cameras stuck in my face at the funeral, our
phone forever ringing with offers of a newspaper exclusive. My father turned
them all down, of course. ‘Vultures,’ he would say, slamming down the phone.
But now, with the state of the farm to consider, and the way he’s been
drinking, he might be tempted to sell his story. For what it’s worth, that is, eighteen
years after the event.

The inspector
finishes his statement to the press. After their final questions, most of the
journalists pack up and shuffle away, photographers carrying equipment back to
their vans. DI Powell takes off his dark sunglasses, coming towards us as
though he too has been waiting to speak to us.

‘Eleanor,’ he says, though I note how his gaze
flicks sideways to Tris. ‘A moving service, I thought. Especially when the kids
read out that poem.’

I wonder again about the night Tris was kept in
for questioning. We’ve never discussed it, but I guess it’s not an experience
Tris is likely to have forgotten.

‘Sarah McGellan was obviously very well-liked
and respected,’ the inspector adds, ‘especially in the Cornish surfing
community. Her family are devastated.’

‘I’m
not surprised,’ I say.

DI
Powell pockets his sunglasses, regarding me steadily. ‘And how are you,
Eleanor?’

‘She wants to know if you’re any nearer
catching the man who did this,’ Tris asks before I can open my mouth.

‘Now,
Mr Taylor, I know you’re upset about the length of time my officers took to
question you, but you have to be reasonable. This is a very serious murder
enquiry. I can’t discuss the particulars of any ongoing investigations.’

DI
Powell does not look fazed by this sudden attack. I guess he is used to dealing
with difficult members of the public. Including former detainees.

But
Tris is not satisfied. ‘What about Denzil?’ he asks, pressing the inspector.

‘I’m personally satisfied that Denzil Tremain
has no connection with the murder of Sarah McGellan.’

‘Ditto,’
I say.

‘But he must have known her.’ Tris surprises me
by persisting with his attack. ‘Denzil knows all the local surfers. He spends
most of his time on the coast, on the beaches or in the clubs. I expect he knew
her intimately. Sarah McGellan was a surf instructor, after all.’ He pauses significantly.
‘And his father’s always in prison.’

‘We had no reason to hold Mr Tremain any longer.’

‘So do you plan to make any other arrests?’
Tris demands loudly. There are still mourners talking quietly in a group by the
church door. Heads are beginning to turn. ‘I don’t like the idea that Eleanor could
be at risk, that whoever murdered Sarah McGellan is still wandering about
free.’

‘We are currently following various lines of inquiry.
None of them connected to Mr Tremain. I can understand your concern, Mr Taylor.
But there’s really no need to worry.’ The inspector manages a thin smile for my
benefit, though I can see he’s annoyed. ‘I have officers out there right now, Eleanor,
making door-to-door enquiries. As soon as we know anything new, we’ll be in
touch.’

‘Thanks,’
I say, and squeeze Tris’s hand, hoping he gets the message that I want him to
leave it alone now. ‘I look forward to it. You’ve been very helpful.’

Reverend Clemo walks slowly past with several
elderly villagers, their heads down, talking to him earnestly. But he stops
when he sees the inspector, stiffening a little as though he had not expected
to see him there.

‘Excuse me, ladies,’ he says to the
parishioners, and waits patiently for them to walk on before he turns and nods
to the inspector. ‘Detective Inspector Powell,’ he says in welcome, using that authoritative
church voice again. ‘A sad day.’

Powell steps forward to shake the vicar’s hand,
holding his grip just a second longer than you’d expect. Like they’re both
members of the local branch of the Masons.

‘Indeed,
Reverend,’ Powell agrees, using his police voice in return. Brisk and incisive.
‘I thought the service was very moving though. And useful for the community.
Good of you and the parish team to put it together at such short notice.’

‘Not all, not at all. My pleasure, inspector.’
Clemo pauses, looking first at me, then at Tris. His smile is unconvincing. I
get the impression he would prefer not to acknowledge us at all. ‘Well, I’m
glad you could all come. And what a glorious day it’s turning out to be.’ His long
robes flap about his ankles, right on cue. ‘Apart from this infernal wind.’

‘Maybe
we could have a word while I’m in the village, sir,’ the inspector suggests,
smiling.

‘Ah,
not today. I do apologise. Maybe next week sometime?’

DI
Powell raises his brows. It’s clear he’s not used to having his offers of a
‘word’ rejected. ‘No police interviews on the Sabbath, Reverend?’ he enquires.

‘Nothing
so dogmatic, inspector. I simply need to offer some assistance to my wife for
tomorrow’s garden party at the vicarage. An annual event, Detective Inspector,
to mark the start of the summer season. Stalls with refreshments and
bric-a-brac and church souvenirs. You know the sort of thing, I’m sure. But it
does seem to require rather a lot of … ’ The vicar waves his hand vaguely, not
finishing. ‘Well, if you would excuse me. Very good to see you all.’

DI Powell turns to watch Reverend Clemo’s
departing back, his expression speculative. Again, I wonder why the vicar seems
to dislike me so much. It can’t simply be because I turned him away from the
house when he started getting too religious on me the other week. That must
happen to him all the time. No, it’s more likely that, in common with the older
and more conservative residents of the village, Reverend Clemo believes I’m to
blame for the things that have happened round here lately. Like I’m a magnet
for evil.

Which
could be true, I consider drily, given my history to date.

‘Eleanor, on second thoughts, I would like to talk
to you again,’ Powell says, turning his attention back to me. He glances at
Tris. ‘Would you excuse us for a minute?’

I
nod to him, and Tris sighs, but turns away, looking resigned. ‘I’ll wait for
you outside the gate,’ he says over his shoulder.

‘See
you right there,’ I agree.

Once
we are alone, DI Powell studies me thoughtfully. ‘I think bringing you in again
for another chat could be very productive, Eleanor.’ A few strands of silvering
hair are blown into his eyes by a gust of wind; he flicks them back into place
with an impatient hand. ‘I don’t want to alarm you unduly, but you do appear to
be the lynchpin of this investigation. Which makes me wonder if there’s
something we failed to uncover in our earlier interviews. Some small detail
which may seem insignificant to you, but which could provide my team with a
breakthrough. I often find it’s the smallest details that make the biggest difference
when you’re trying to piece together a puzzle like this.’

‘So why the change of heart? You seemed to
think before that I couldn’t help you any further.’

‘This anklet … I thought it was a message at
first. A warning, perhaps. Or a boast. Like our killer is saying to you,
Look, I can take your things and dress my
victims up in them.
’ DI Powell pauses, frowning in concentration as he
continues to pursue that idea. ‘Or maybe he’s deliberately trying to make his
victims
look
more like you. As though
he wants to turn them into a new version of you by stripping them naked and making
them wear something he’s actually seen
you
wearing.’

I grimace. ‘Oh my
God, don’t. That’s too creepy for words.’

He
looks round at me, startled, as though he has only just realised he is talking
so frankly to another possible murder victim. ‘Sorry, so sorry. Please ignore
me, Eleanor. That was very wrong of me. I was thinking out loud.’

‘Okay,
I’ll try to blank out that whole mental image,’ I say, shaking my head in
disbelief. ‘But now you’re not sure about the significance of the anklet?’

‘Well,’
he says more cautiously, ‘it just occurred to me that it may have been a
souvenir. Rather than a message.’

I’m taken aback. ‘A souvenir? Of what?’

‘That depends on his mindset, and also the
degree to which he is close to you. It could be a souvenir of having spoken to
you in person, or maybe having danced with you the night your anklet went
missing. Right now it’s hard to be definite about anything, the forensic
evidence is so thin. That’s why I’d like another opportunity to sit down and talk
to you at length.’

‘You
said,
victims
. Plural. So you believe
me now, about the other woman I saw in the woods?’

He
shrugs. ‘I’m keeping my options open.’

‘If
I’m right though, does that make me his next target?’

‘From
what we know so far, there’s a good chance Sarah McGellan was picked out at
random. She was unlucky. Which would indicate that although you should continue
being careful and making sure someone knows where you are at all times, you probably
aren’t in any immediate danger. But I can put an officer outside your door at
night, if you feel unsafe – ’

DI
Powell is interrupted by an angry shout from the church gate.

It’s Denzil.

He looks wild, his tawny hair dishevelled. He’s
wearing an orange surfing vest with a blue wave design, his powerful arms and
shoulders covered in sprawling tattoos. He launches towards me, stumbling as
though he’s been drinking, his eyes fixed on my face.

‘Ellie, I need to talk to you.’

Denzil checks momentarily at the sight of the
inspector, then keeps walking as though propelled by the strength of his
emotions, the anger in his whole body deepening with every step.

‘Was it you, Ellie?’ he demands, staring at me.
‘Did you grass me up to the filth? Do you really think I’m a murderer?’

‘Denzil, please,’ I say urgently, and he stops
in front of us, his face tense, hands swinging loose at his sides like he’s
longing to do violence with them. ‘This isn’t helping.’

DI Powell is on his mobile, a step away, his level
gaze on Denzil. It’s obvious what’s going to happen. At least the journalists
seem to have gone. That would have been a nightmare come true, to have the
media swarming all over this confrontation.

‘Go home, Denzil,’ I plead with him. ‘Go home
and sober up, please. The police don’t think it was you either. You don’t need
to do this.’

‘But
who gave them my name?’ He glares at Tris, who’s suddenly appeared out of
nowhere, standing behind me as though ready to whisk me away at the first hint
of violence. ‘Was it you, Taylor? I know you can’t stand me, it’s in your face.
But it’s not my fault she prefers me.’

Tris narrows his eyes but says nothing.

DI
Powell puts a hand on Denzil’s arm. ‘Why don’t you come with me, sit in my car
for a few minutes? We can talk.’

Denzil gives a roar and pushes him away. ‘Get
lost, copper.’

‘Calm down,’ I tell him urgently. ‘You’re going
to get yourself arrested again.’

Suddenly Denzil turns on me, flushed with anger
and breathing hard, and I crouch, ready to defend myself. He’s going to be
surprised if he takes me on, I think.

‘As
for you, Eleanor Blackwood – ’

Denzil gets no further. Tris steps in, trips
him up with one neat move, then pushes him to the ground, twisting one of his
arms behind his back, pressing a knee into the small of his back.
End of situation.

I
straighten, impressed. It is exactly the move I would have used myself if
Denzil had laid a finger on me.

‘Give it up, Denzil,’ Tris tells him, then
steps back as a police officer comes running up the path. ‘Yeah, don’t worry. He’s
all yours.’

The constable wrestles Denzil to his feet. He
looks like a caged lion, tawny hair springing everywhere. All the fight has
gone out of him. His face crumples as he stares back over his shoulder at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mouths, then lets himself be dragged away.

DI
Powell smooths down his hair and looks at me, clearly concerned. ‘You okay,
Eleanor?’

‘Never
better. He got nowhere near me.’ I frown as the inspector turns away. ‘Wait. You’re
not going to arrest him again, are you? Denzil hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s
just upset because he thinks I betrayed him.’

The
inspector looks back at me wryly. ‘Drunk and disorderly. Assault on a police
officer. Public affray. Resisting arrest. Need I go on?’

‘But
you don’t
have
to arrest him. You can
choose to give him a warning instead.’

Powell
hesitates. ‘That’s true, yes.’

I
glance at Tris, who is a few feet away, still looking flushed and angry as he
watches Denzil being manhandled into a police van. I say, ‘If I agree to come
in for another interview, will you let him go?’

‘This
isn’t a barter system,’ Powell says, his tone sardonic.

‘I
don’t have to talk to you again if I don’t want to.’

He
looks at me closely, then sighs. ‘Okay. No arrest. No charges. But perhaps a
verbal warning. Does that satisfy you?’

I
smile. ‘Thanks,’ I say, then hold out my hand to Tris. ‘Come on, let’s go and
visit my mother’s grave.’

The
road outside the church is quiet now, and to my relief, the journalists appear
to have vanished
en masse
, just as
they arrived. I can see Denzil sitting in the back of the police van, head
down, talking to one of the officers. He seems much calmer now.

We set off up the
hill side by side. The overflow cemetery is only a three minute walk from the
church, but the hill’s steep so it always takes longer going up than coming
down.

‘What
did the inspector want?’

‘To
frighten me. I have a feeling he thinks I know something I haven’t shared with
the police.’

Tris
narrows his eyes against the sun, squinting back over his shoulder like he
wants to check we’re not being followed.

‘And
do you?’

I
grin. ‘Plenty.’

‘Did
you tell him about the photograph?’

‘No.’

He
looks at me then, suddenly intent. ‘Why not?’

‘No
need for them to know. They’ll only insist on a search of the cottage, make me
see if anything else is missing. I couldn’t stand that, the invasion of my
privacy. Besides, I hate the way Powell is obsessed with me being some kind of
target for this guy. I know I’ve got to be careful. I’m not an idiot. And yes,
it scares the shit out of me to think whoever murdered Sarah McGellan might be
watching me too, waiting for his chance.’

‘He’d have to come through me first.’

‘My hero.’ I squeeze his hand, my grip
lingering a few seconds longer than necessary. I haven’t forgotten the way he
looked at me in church. But now is not the time. ‘But part of me is also
thinking, fuck it, bring him on. Let him try his best shot. I’m ready for him.’

Tris
shakes his head. ‘Good grief. Keep going to the therapy sessions. You need
them.’

I laugh, starting to relax now we’re out of
sight of the police. It may be ridiculous but I still feel guilty when DI
Powell is around. Like I’m making it all up. Though the discovery of Sarah
McGellan’s body has at least made that an impossibility.

We round the bend in full sunshine and arrive
at the newer cemetery, built because the old churchyard was overflowing, with no
room for new graves. There’s a sign on the chest-high metal gate: the usual
small print about municipal sites; the council taking no responsibility, etc. It
protests as we push it open.

‘Hinges need oiling,’ Tris comments, glancing
back as the gate squeaks shut behind us.

I often wish Mum was buried in the old
churchyard. It feels quieter and more peaceful there, sheltered by the church
walls and overshadowed by dark, ancient yew trees. The strong Cornish winds
blow straight off the moor and over the old graves, some of their headstones
half-sunk into grass or eroded by the centuries so the names of the dead are no
longer readable. But today I welcome the bright, breezy look of the modern
plot. It’s sunny here among the clean white and marbled gravestones, a few bouquets
of flowers arranged in stainless steel pots on the newest graves, ribboned
clusters nodding in the breeze, even a little blue teddy bear left on the baby’s
grave that I can never pass without wanting to cry.

We climb silently up through the sloping plot,
round the grassy bend behind the trees, to where my mother lies buried.

Tris stops dead at the corner. ‘Eleanor.’

I look at him, still hanging on his arm. ‘What now?’
I tease him, amused by his expression. ‘Ready to confess it was you all along?’

He meets my eyes. ‘Eleanor,’ he repeats
hoarsely, then points towards my mother’s grave.