Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (23 page)

There’s a woman stretched out on her back,
lying across my mother’s grave.

I
know at once that she’s dead, and not least because I’ve seen her before, lying
in the woods in the exact spot where the woman under that grave was strangled.

It’s
Number Three.

That
morning she looked awkward, positioned in a ghoulish way to catch the eye, legs
drawn up slightly, one arm above her head, her index finger pointing
mysteriously down at the stream. Now it looks as though she lay down to sleep
– and never woke up.

I stop in front of her and force myself to look
at her properly this time, no flinching.

The
body is partially wrapped in what looks like old sacking, but she appears to be
naked beneath it. The rotting, yellowish material has fallen away in places,
displaying her right shoulder and a little of her breast, plus part of her
belly and thigh. Her skin underneath is dirty white with a yellowish tinge,
like the sacking itself. The long, limp chestnut hair lies in clumped strands
about her face and bare shoulders. She has a high forehead, a neatly upturned
nose, pale lips. Too pale.

Her throat is horribly mottled though: livid
white patches, then dark bruising in that only too familiar rope-burn pattern I
remember from last time.

She was strangled.

For a second I’m back in those lonely woods,
staring down at her body from above. Like standing above my mother’s dead body.
Run, Ellie, run!
My breathing begins
to quicken, my pulse hammering unpleasantly. Tiny flashes of memory flicker
behind my eyes, leaving me sick and off-balance. A shadow moving behind trees
in the woods. Someone watching from above. The sound of birds, calling out a
warning.

The icy touch of
déja-vu
is like cold water down my spine. With an inevitable
after-taste of madness.

Someone has touched up the number three in
black marker pen since last time. It looks fresh but slightly smudged too.
There’s a faint ghost-line round the two curves of the three, I realise, as
though whoever rewrote it had not quite removed all traces of the original
number first, and just missed tracing it perfectly.

Tris has come to
stand behind me. ‘Is this the woman you saw first?’

I
nod silently.

‘Number
Three,’ he says. ‘And we already found Number Two buried in the woods.’ He
pauses a beat. ‘It’s a kind of countdown. But who’s Number One?’

I
decide not to answer that.

There
are tiny white crystals on her eyelids and slightly parted lips, as though she
had breathed her last in the snowy Antarctic. That’s new. I reach out and touch
her one of the arms folded across her chest, not in any macabre way but to test
a theory.

She’s cold.

Not just chilly, as you would expect. Super-cold.

‘I think she’s been kept in a freezer.’ I stare
at the pale eyelids, the whiter-than-white cheeks. ‘So he could preserve her
body.’

‘Until now,’ Tris mutters, crouching beside me.
He looks unsteady, his gaze locked on the woman’s face.

I
glance about at the sunlit trees, the quiet rows of headstones. ‘Well, it’s a
good place for a dead body. It’s just usually they’re inside the graves, not on
top of them.’

He
looks at me sideways, and I hear myself apologize. ‘Sorry, you’re right. Not
funny.’ I study the dead woman again, frowning. ‘Seriously though, why here?’

He hesitates. ‘To make sure she’s found
quickly?’

‘Too obvious.’

‘For the shock value, then. Like you said, you
expect graves here but not dead bodies. Then you come round the corner, and …
boom
.’

‘That’s closer to the truth, I think. It’s like
Sarah McGellan’s body. That was about display too. But also a demonstration.’

‘Of what?’

‘Power. It’s like he’s saying,
this is what you’re up against. If I can do
this, I can do anything
.’

ANGELA BLACKWOOD, the headstone reads starkly, then
my mother’s dates of birth and death. So final, nothing you can argue with. Gold
letters and numerals etched deep into black-flecked granite. LOVING WIFE TO
BEN, MOTHER TO ELEANOR. He wanted me to see this, to show me how personal it
is. That’s why he left her here. To make a point. TAKEN TOO SOON.
 
MUCH MISSED.

I look at the line of young silver birches dancing
in the breeze, slim-trunked, still ringed with tags from their planting, that separate
this higher part of the plot from the rest. The grass banks around us are neat
and even, recently mown. I turn my head, looking around, ninety degrees. At our
backs is thick hedgerow and fields beyond that, rough stony grassland
stretching into woods where the ground gets too steep and wild to be farmed. It’s
a peaceful part of the churchyard, but a lonely one too.

‘Whoever the killer is, he knows me. Maybe knew
my mother too.’ I look back at the headstone. ‘He wanted me to be the one to
find her. To get the full effect. But how could he be sure no one else would
find her first and spoil his surprise? I used to put fresh flowers on her grave
every Sunday, but I stopped after university.’

‘Maybe it was guesswork. A sheer gamble. Maybe
he had a hunch you’d be at the memorial service for Sarah McGellan today, so
took a chance on the likelihood of you walking up to visit your mum’s grave.’

I nod, feeling vaguely guilty. How long has it
been since I last brought flowers for Mum’s grave? I had intended to buy a nice
bunch of flowers and bring them up here on the anniversary of her death. But of
course everything had gone wrong that day, starting with the discovery of a
dead body in the woods.

‘So he’s a gambler. Or was leaving me a
message, knowing she would be found sooner or later. Whatever the reason, he
chose this place,
this grave
,
deliberately.’

‘So disrespectful though. A slap in the face.’

‘This is a killer we’re talking about, Tris. I
don’t think he’s concerned about social etiquette. Though I agree it’s personal
this time, and most definitely aimed at me.’ I study the body, impressed by my
own calm. It’s almost unnatural. Perhaps I should be working in a mortuary, not
physical education.
 
‘Not an insult
though. She’s too carefully arranged for that. And her body’s partially
covered. If he’d wanted to be really offensive … ’

A sudden thought strikes me. ‘We must tell DI
Powell,’ I say quickly, ‘before he leaves for the station.’

‘I’ll run down and see if I can catch him.’
Tris straightens, then hesitates. He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Sure you’ll
be alright on your own?’

‘I’m not taking my eyes off her again. Last
time I did that, she disappeared and nobody believed I’d even seen her. I owe
it to this woman to stay put this time.’

Tris squeezes my shoulder. ‘I’ll be right
back.’

As soon as he’s out
of sight, I realise that I may have made a mistake. The silver birches are
moving uneasily in the breeze, the dancing flutter of their green leaves a
distraction as I scan the rest of the plot, looking for movement, anything out
of place. Worse still, as the breeze strengthens, the thick hedgerow of beech
and hawthorn starts making a scraping sound like a bad violinist. Or a gate
with a squeaky hinge. I listen to the eerie sound, kneeling beside the dead
body. The sun has gone in and it’s suddenly cool up here on the exposed
hillside.

The loose sacking flaps back at a sudden gust,
revealing her right breast. Something glitters on her nipple. Make-up? Fine
sand?

I should probably drag the old sacking back
into place, cover her up. Her body is naked underneath it, after all, and it
doesn’t seem right to leave her exposed like this.

I
stand up, rubbing a hand over my eyes, and turn round, looking away from her body.

It’s the wrong thing to do. He was waiting for
me to do that. Gambling on it, in fact.

I gasp and jerk back like I’ve been
electrocuted. I don’t believe it. I stare at the overgrown thicket of beech and
hawthorn some fifteen or twenty feet away, a boundary hedge between the cemetery
plot and the field beyond, and realise I have not imagined that sensation of
being watched.

There’s a face among the leaves.

I don’t move, staring.

The eyes move, a definite pale flicker among
the vivid green leaves.

Someone is watching me from behind the hedge.

‘Eleanor?’

I
spin violently at the sound of my name. Footsteps thud heavily across the grass
plot. I see legs first, black suit trousers and polished shoes, flickering fast
through the row of silver birches in full leaf. Like one of those Victorian
cinematic toys, one frame at a time, the light flashing as the images revolve. Then
someone comes running round the corner of the trees, holding down his tie to
stop it flapping about.

It’s
Detective Inspector Powell, followed by one of his younger officers. His head turns
from side to side, checking the site, looking for me.

I call his name. He sees me, raises a hand, then
looks past me at my mother’s grave.

Powell slows at the sight of the dead body
covered in sacking, his expression incredulous and horrified. ‘Oh God, not
another one.’

My thoughts entirely.

I look away, pointing at the gloomy hedgerow still
shivering and creaking behind me. My finger finds the exact spot where I saw
the face. Except I can no longer see that pale flicker of eyes through the
leaves.

‘What is it?’ Powell asks, following my
pointing finger.

‘I thought I saw … ’

At that moment, the sun comes out again, lighting
up this side of the cemetery. There’s nobody there now. The hedgerow is dark
green ivy and beech trees decked in glossy new leaves. Light-coloured buds on
the narrow, interwoven branches. Late hawthorn blossom gleaming in the sun, a
cluster of spiny twigs creaking as they scrape harmlessly against each other.
No face though. No watching killer.

I want to tell him about the face among the
leaves, but I’m uncertain now. This man already thinks I’m crazy.

‘What did you see, Eleanor?’

He asks the question but he’s on the phone at
the same time, not looking at me or the hedgerow marking the boundary of the cemetery
plot.

‘Damn signal,’ he mutters, then nods at the
young police officer, who’s halted on the grass and is staring ashen-faced at
the dead body. ‘Get on the radio, would you?’ Powell tells him, impatient but
not unkind. ‘Let them know down at Headquarters that we need forensics up here
with their kit. Plus any other bodies that can be spared, the whole works. And
don’t let anyone just wander in before they can arrive and secure the site. This
is a murder scene now. Quick about it, constable.’

I walk away a few
yards, then sit down on one of the newer headstones, keeping my back to my
mum’s grave.

The headstone is square across the top, a block
of hard white stone that cuts into the back of my thighs. My heart is racing,
my chest tight, and I have to fight off waves of nausea. I know the symptoms of
a panic attack and concentrate on my breathing, on staying deliberately blank.

Did I imagine that face? Those eyes, watching
me through the leaves? Maybe there was no one there. Maybe it was my imagination
the whole time.

I glance over my shoulder at the dead woman. DI
Powell is bending over her, careful not to disturb the body.

I bury my face in my hands, breathing deep and
slow.

‘What did you see, Eleanor?’

I look up to find Powell standing right in
front of me. How much time has passed?

‘I
saw someone among the bushes there, watching me. But it could have been a trick
of the light.’

‘Maybe.’ He scrutinises the hedge, then looks
back at me. ‘You don’t have to wait, Eleanor. We’ll take it from here. But I’d like
you to go straight home and stay there for the time being. Agreed?’

 
‘Am
I a suspect?’

‘No, but I’ve just heard there’s been another
woman reported missing.’ His voice deepens, and he meets my gaze steadily. I
can tell from his face that he’s genuinely worried. We go back too many years
for him to hide it from me. ‘I don’t want you disappearing too. Got it?’

I nod.

He
turns away to make a quick call on his phone, then comes back. ‘One of my
officers will run you home. I’ll be in touch later. We’ll need another
statement.’

Tris appears at a run round the corner of the
silver birches, breathing heavily. He sees me and Powell, and skids to a halt
on the grass, then continues more slowly up the slope towards us.

I
notice he’s careful not to look at the dead body.

‘Good,
you found her,’ Tris says to the inspector, who looks at him hard. Powell still
suspects him of being involved, I realise.

‘Where were you?’ I ask.