Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (6 page)

I think about my dead mother. The long
investigation, the false leads, the unsolved murder. The newspaper cuttings I managed
to salvage after the house fire and still keep in a box under my bed. There’s a
powerful sense of
déja-vu
. I look from
the white-haired policeman to my father, who is still saying nothing, and then
back again.

‘But did you look exactly where I told DS
Carrick?’ I ask. ‘Down near the stream, next to the little footbridge?’

‘We
looked beside the stream like you told us,’ Carrick jumps in before Powell can
reply. ‘We didn’t find anything.’

There is no sympathy in Carrick’s face. His
voice is sharp. I can tell what he thinks about all this. He thinks he has
spent the morning on a fool’s errand.

‘As I was just telling your father, we searched
the whole wood,’ he continues coldly. ‘Combed the undergrowth, searched up and
down the banks.
There was nothing there.
Just your footprints in the mud on both sides of the stream. It was a bit of a
mess down there, animal tracks and so on, but the tread of your trainers
matched the prints we found exactly.’

‘That’s
impossible,’ I say, staring at Carrick. ‘There must have been other footprints
on that path. How else – ?’

‘We
checked and double-checked, Miss Blackwood.’

Hannah slips quietly into the kitchen, still in
her pyjamas, and takes up a position near the fridge, watching me with raised
eyebrows through the pack of dark, uniformed shoulders.

I
shake my head, looking from Carrick to Powell. Neither of the two detectives
appear to be joking.

‘I
don’t understand.’

‘There was no Path Closed sign either,’ Carrick
adds, getting out his police notebook and flicking through it. ‘You mentioned a
diversion sign in your statement this morning. We got a council worker down
there, and someone from the Forestry Commission. There have been no paths
closed in the woods today. No paths closed
for
weeks
, was what they said.’

This makes no sense to me.

‘But
there was a diversion sign,’ I tell them, trying to stay patient, not to lose
my temper. ‘It was standing on the bend where the lower and upper paths divide.
If it’s not still there, someone must have moved it. Perhaps deliberately.’

Carrick
shakes his head. ‘Not according to the man from the Forestry Commission. And
he’s got no reason to lie.’

Powell
folds his arms across his chest, watching me. One of the other police officers
is looking away, smirking behind my father’s back.

They
think I’m mad. Or a liar.

‘I
tell you, I saw a body down by the stream,’ I say doggedly. ‘You can’t give up.
You have to go back to the woods and look again. She can’t just have vanished.’

‘For God’s sake, Eleanor, stop it,’ my father
bursts out, glaring at me like he hates me. ‘It’s nearly two decades since your
mother died. When are you going to let it go?’

I
turn, staring at him. ‘Dad?’

‘No,
this needs to be said. I thought you were over it, I really did. You spent all
those years in therapy, got through university, found a good job. But to have
sent the police down there again in search of a non-existent body … ’ He makes
a convulsive noise in his throat. ‘This is beyond attention-grabbing. This is
sick.’

I don’t know what to say in reply to that
accusation. But I go through each word of his speech again in my head, weighing
it carefully against what I know and what I saw.

When
I glance around the room, I realise that nobody is looking at me anymore.
They’ve moved on, discussing what should happen next. Powell starts flicking
through a notebook. Carrick is talking about a visit to the police station.
There’s an edge of contempt in the sergeant’s voice. He’s suggesting to my
father that I should make an admission of guilt at once, agreeing that it was a
lie. Though ‘mistaken’ is the diplomatic word he uses after a stern look from
DI Powell. A formal statement with a signature, withdrawing my previous claim. So
the police can all go home and cross ‘mad woman sees dead body’ off their list
of things to investigate.

Hannah tries to defend me – she’s
fantastic, I owe her for that – and my father snaps round at her, tells
my friend to mind her own business.

Sick.

My rage clears for a moment. I force myself to
say the words I’ve been trying to repress. ‘I’m sorry, Dad, but I need you to
leave.’

He
stares. ‘What?’

‘This
isn’t your house, Dad, and I want to speak to the police alone. Could you
leave, please?’

My
father slicks back his hair in a nervous gesture, but does not move. ‘I don’t
think you know what you’re saying, Ellie.’

DI Powell looks sympathetic. His eyes meet mine
frankly. ‘No one is saying you’ve lied, Eleanor. But maybe you
thought
you saw a dead body. The light
in those woods can play funny tricks on your eyes, especially ... Well, you
must admit you’re in a heightened emotional state right now.’ When I protest,
he raises a hand to stop me. ‘Listen, we’ve had six officers down there this
morning, hunting through the woods, checking everywhere. We found nothing.
Nothing at all.’

I think of the woman’s body. Her finger,
pointing. The bubbling gurgle of the stream, so noisy I can barely hear myself
think.

‘So, this was all some kind of hallucination?’
The sense of betrayal is so strong, it tastes like blood in my mouth.

DI Powell remains calm, but his expression is
intent. ‘I think your mother’s death hit you hard, Eleanor. And your father
tells me you haven’t seen your psychiatrist for some years. Perhaps now would
be a good idea to go back into therapy. Just until you’re over this bump.’

‘What bump?’

‘Your father tells me you recently started work
at your old school.’ DI Powell looks at me with that vague smile again. Trying
to appear understanding. Hands in his trouser pockets. ‘A new job can be very
stressful, and perhaps going back to the school has kicked up some old memories.
Emotions you thought you’d got past. I remember when I first joined the force, it
wasn’t easy to adapt to the demands of the job. And I had nothing like your excuse.’

The
inspector pauses, and his brow creases uneasily. ‘Obviously we’re not going to
charge you with wasting police time. But we do need some assurances that you’ll
visit your doctor, get yourself sorted out with some therapy sessions.’

My gaze swings round the circle of concerned
faces. ‘You don’t believe a word of my story. You think I’ve lost it.’

Even
Hannah is looking uncertain now. ‘It’s not like that, Ellie. But perhaps you
should sit down for a few minutes. Think things through properly.’

Et tu,
Brute
?

My
head is buzzing and I can’t seem to catch my breath. I feel like I’m going mad,
which would suit their theory.

‘Look, I saw a dead woman in the woods this
morning,’ I tell them flatly. ‘I don’t know what happened to her body
afterwards, but I didn’t imagine seeing her. And whoever she was, I owe it to
that woman to keep telling you the truth. Shouting it from the rooftops, if
necessary.’

PC
Helen Flynn raises her eyebrows. ‘Even if nobody
ever
believes you?’

‘Especially
then.’

I ignore Hannah’s
advice as well as the head teacher’s, and am back at work two days after the
anniversary of my mother’s death. It would probably feel too soon to another person,
but to me it feels about right. I hate kicking my heels at home anyway.
Pressure like this makes me want to be active, to do things, make stuff happen.
I can’t bear sitting about an empty house and staring at the television screen
with nothing to do but fret and remember.

‘You
should be taking longer at home after what you’ve been through,’ Jenny tells me
as we pull up in the car park, not bothering to hide her disapproval.

‘Better
here than at the cottage.’

‘I
suppose it’s less lonely.’

‘Especially
when Hannah spends the greater part of every day
asleep
.’

‘She’s
still on nights?’

I
nod, averting my gaze as a swarm of noisy kids rush past from the bus bays and
towards the side entrance. The school building in front of us is long and low, facing
due east, a dozen large windows right in my eye line reflecting the sun.

Putting
on a pair of sunglasses, I instantly feel safer, more anonymous. Which is a
complete illusion, of course. But it helps.

‘So
what did the police say?’ she asks, negotiating into a narrow parking place
near the playing fields.

‘That
I need psychiatric help.’

Jenny
looks round at me, surprised. ‘And do you agree with them?’

‘Absolutely
not.’

‘That’s
the spirit.’ She turns off the engine, then checks the mirror in her sun visor,
quickly tidying her hair. ‘I’m glad you accepted a lift from me this time, you
know. I’m sure that scooter can’t be very safe. And I’m sorry I didn’t have
time to come round yesterday evening. Family nonsense, you know. I’ve got a
free period this afternoon if you still want a chat over coffee.’

‘I’d
appreciate it.’ I rummage in my bag and study my timetable. ‘I’m in the gym
until the end of fourth period. That any good?’

‘Sounds
perfect. I’ll come and find you after the bell.’

We
walk into the school together, heading for the gym and changing rooms. Our
territory, for what it’s worth. In the corridors, it’s obvious who has been
reading the daily regional newspaper. A journalist rang yesterday to ask for my
side of the story; I put the phone down on her. But I guess they went ahead and
printed whatever they had from the police anyway. Some of the teachers glance
at me in passing, their eyes curious. The younger kids stare openly, fascinated.
Some of them point, then whisper behind my back. I start to wonder whether I
should have taken the head’s advice to stay home and ‘keep a low profile’ for a
few days.

But
why the hell should I? I have done nothing wrong. I told them the truth. I have
no idea what happened after I left the woods, and no way of proving what I saw,
but my dead woman was real. Too real and solid to have melted away, that’s for
certain.

We
part company at the changing rooms.

‘Told
you it wouldn’t be easy.’ Jenny frowns at two Year 10 girls who are talking
about me in loud, excitable squeaks; they giggle and run past as the bell
rings. ‘You ought to have stayed at the cottage until the excitement had died
down. This kind of attention would drive me crazy.’

‘Didn’t you get the memo? I already
am
crazy.’

‘Right, you should
all know what you’re meant to be doing. Has everyone got a partner and a mat?’

The
kids shuffle about in crumpled shorts and polo shirts, some arguing over mats,
others eyeing their opponents from crouched positions like they’re about to reenact
some martial arts movie.

‘I
don’t have a partner, Miss,’ one lad says plaintively, sticking his arm straight
up in the air.

‘You
can partner me, Paul,’ I say, then immediately wish I hadn’t when I see his
grin and the quick glance over his shoulder. I’m a target for these kids at the
moment. One sniff of weakness and they will close in, thirsty for blood. But it’s
done now; I’ll only look afraid if I back off now. And I don’t do afraid.

‘Find
a mat, then,’ I tell him curtly. ‘Come on, hurry up. Everyone’s waiting.’

I
blow the whistle hanging round my neck, and Paul immediately grabs me by the
sleeve. He may only be fifteen, a Year 10, but he’s strong, just taller than me
at about five foot nine, and well-built with it. On top of that, I know he
doesn’t like me. Actually, to be fair to Paul, he doesn’t like any woman who
can knock him to the floor and make him look like an idiot in front of his
mates.

Normally, I show these kids how to put an
attacker on the ground in about thirty seconds. But maybe what I saw in the
woods has knocked me off balance, because either Paul is stronger than I
expected or my usual grapple-and-throw needs some rehab work.

I struggle with him for a moment, trying and
failing to ‘locate my core’ as Jenny likes to put it during staff training
sessions. I’m a hair’s breadth from losing control of the situation.

Then
I see him smile. The lad’s grip slackens almost imperceptibly. He’s
over-confident; thinks he’s got me, that it’s all over.

As
he hesitates, hoping his mates are watching his moment of triumph, I hook my
foot round his ankle, press my knee up under his left leg, then jerk him off
balance.

Paul falls backwards, a look of comical dismay
on his face. He lands heavily on his back in the middle of the blue mat. ‘Shit.’

‘Language,
Paul.’ I step back, breathing hard. ‘Keep it clean or you’ll be out of my class.’

‘Sorry, Miss.’ He drags himself up off the
floor, tidies his rumpled shirt, then shoots me a look that promises revenge.
His next words are muttered, for my ears only. ‘
Freak
.’

I stiffen, staring at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I
didn’t say nothing, Miss.’ Surly now, Paul slicks back his hair and shuffles
away, a pair of pink-striped underpants showing above the loose waistband of
his shorts.

Chrissy, his girlfriend, is two or three mats
behind us. The other kids are making a racket, laughing and struggling to throw
each other to the floor. All the same I hear the whine of her voice cutting
through the chaos in the gym. ‘Why did you let her do that to you, Paul?
Everyone knows she’s mental.’

My temper is up near the top of the red line. I
want to send them both out of class, slap a detention on them. But our time’s
nearly up, and besides, I’m on probation; the head teacher made that clear in
her phone call last night. Patricia was blunt. ‘First sign that you can’t handle
being back at work, and I’ll insist you take a full week off. Is that clear?’

I
blow the whistle to signal the end of the bout.

Nobody stops.

I
blow the whistle twice again, then clap my hands, trying to get the kids’
attention above the noise. ‘That’s enough for today, everyone,’ I shout. ‘Start
packing it up.’

I hear someone mutter an expletive behind me,
and turn, looking at Chrissy. She’s a tall blonde, skinny with angular hips and
waist-length hair always gathered up in a high ponytail that swings violently
from side to side when she’s walking. She’s standing still now, with her hands
low on her hips, pink hipster joggers loose on her narrow frame.

‘What was that?’ I ask her coldly.

‘Nothing, Miss.’ Chrissy is enjoying herself,
raising her voice as she repeats her boyfriend’s denial. Some of the other kids
nearby have stopped messing about and are staring at us, fascinated. ‘Maybe
you’re hearing things as well as seeing them.’

Paul is grinning now. He nods at his girlfriend
in approval. Some of their cronies have gathered round as though hoping for a
fight. It’s like being surrounded by a pack of growling hyenas.

Chrissy ignores them, looking back at me with a
cold smile. She turns fully towards me now, and I watch her hands come away
from her hips, swing loose, curling into fists.

The
girl’s sizing me up for a punch, I realise. She thinks she can take me, teacher
or not.

 
‘Everyone knows, Miss,’ she says. ‘The
whole school. Paul’s uncle is in the police, remember? He told Paul the only
reason they didn’t charge you with wasting police time is because you’re obviously
mental. Wrong in the head.’

Her
teeth are bared, perfectly straight and white, like someone in a toothpaste
commercial. I imagine her brushing them exactly one hundred times before bed
and one hundred times when she gets up in the morning.

My fists clench, adrenalin pumping round my
body. I’m ready for a fight too. It would be so good to get her in a clinch and
bang her head on the floor. And I could do it, I could take her. I’ve been
studying martial arts for years: judo, karate, taekwondo. It’s tempting to show
Chrissy what I can do.

Control is what I need right now though. I’m a
teacher now, albeit newly qualified. If I can’t control myself, how can I ever
hope to control these kids?

I hear the bell
ring for the end of the lesson but don’t move, still staring at Chrissy. I breathe
slowly through my nose, counting slowly down from ten. Dr Quick’s favourite
strategy for regaining self-control at a moment of crisis.

Another whistle blows, loud and shrill, and the
gym falls silent.

‘Right, everyone, that’s it. Shake your
partner’s hand and get changed. Did nobody hear the bell?’

Jenny Crofter is in the doorway. She shouts over
the noise of thirty or so kids still wrestling noisily with each other, ‘Mats
at the back there. Neat piles, please. And make sure you take all your bags
with you. I don’t want to see anything left behind in the gym.’

Students start to move reluctantly, dragging
their blue mats with them, leaving a streaky dust trail over the floor.

Chrissy shrugs and turns away, leaving the mat
for her partner to carry. Paul hurries after her, limping slightly as though he
hurt himself when I threw him. Probably planning to make a complaint. ‘The teacher
hurt me.’ I should never have partnered with him, it was a mistake to let these
kids get under my skin.
 

Jenny glances at me. Her voice is bland. ‘Ready
for that coffee?’

‘I’ll
be right with you.’

I
bend to straighten the floor mats as students toss theirs on the stack and shuffle
out of the gym. The mats are a dusty blue, the stack dangerously lopsided. As
the last mat is slapped down on top, I see mockery in the boy’s eyes.

‘Thanks,
Miss.’

Freak.

The door slams shut behind him. Jenny puts her
hands on her hips and looks at me, head on one side. ‘What the hell was that
about?’

‘I
had the situation under control.’

‘You
were a long way from that, Eleanor.’ She glances at her watch. ‘We’re both free
now. Why don’t you let me drive you home?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you worried how it might look to take more
time off? Because if Patricia gets to hear about what just happened, you could
end up in far more serious trouble.’

‘Come
on, it wasn’t that bad.’

She
raises her eyebrows. ‘Did I see you throw a student onto the mat?’

‘That
was a mistake,’ I admit.

‘Let’s
hope his parents don’t get on the bloody phone about it. Because that could be
difficult,’ she says bluntly, ‘given the events of this week.’

The events of this week.

I follow her out of the gym. She’s
over-exaggerating the importance of what happened with Paul and Chrissy. It was
an awkward moment, I can’t deny that, and Paul could make trouble for the
school if his parents decide to get involved. But it was not as serious an error
of judgement as she seems to think. I can hardly argue with her though. Jenny
may be my friend but she’s also my Head of Department.

‘Let
me take you home early,’ she insists, and I see no point in refusing.

On the way back to
Eastlyn, Jenny stops at a moorside garage for fuel. I study the newspapers
displayed behind wire on the forecourt.

For fuck’s sake.

I
go in and buy a copy of the local paper. The front page headline screams,
VICTIM’S DAUGHTER REPORTS MYSTERY BODY IN WOODS.

When
Jenny gets back in, she glances across. ‘Oh shit. I’d hoped you wouldn’t see
that.’

‘I
might as well read it. Everyone else will.’

She
nods. ‘There was a copy in the staff room at lunchtime. I threw it in the bin.’

‘Did
you read it first?’

When
Jenny doesn’t answer, I glance across at her. She shrugs, her face guilty. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t
worry about it.’

Carefully,
watching the busy moor road, she pulls out of the garage. I see the owner watching
us through the window. He had said nothing but served me with a sly half-smile on
his face that had not needed much interpreting. It seems that I am once more a
local celebrity. With all that entails for my privacy and peace of mind.