Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (8 page)

There’s a small
staff-only area behind the shed displays. The ground is partly paved, partly
gravelled, with weeds poking out between paving stones. It’s hot and sunny
today. There are some damaged stone benches set to one side, and a pot filled
with soil where people have ground out sneaky cigarettes. Denzil kneels beside
one of the scroll-ended benches, reaches carefully down behind it, and pulls
out a sealed pouch of tobacco. Concealed inside is a pack of extra-thin rolling
paper and a lighter.

He
sits on the bench and gestures me to join him. The stone is warm from the sun,
surprisingly comfortable. ‘Ciggie?’

‘I’ve
given up.’

‘Quitter.’
He lays the tobacco pouch open on his lap and expertly starts to roll himself a
cigarette. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls.’

‘I
thought you didn’t know I’d called.’

‘Well
…’ He does not elaborate on that, but licks the sticky crease of the paper,
then rolls it over, sealing the thin cigarette. ‘You’re no fool, Ellie. You
know I don’t like to feel tied down.’

‘I
wasn’t offering.’

‘Understood.
I’m glad you came to see me, anyway. How are you?’

‘Not brilliant.’

Briefly, I fill him in on what has happened. The
woods, the dead body, the number three on her forehead. Being Denzil, he does
not push the issue or ask further questions, but simply grunts again. That’s
another reason why I like him so much. There’s never any hassle with Denzil and
no need for long-winded explanations.

He
lights his roll-up, blows a soft smoke-ring up into the air, and then asks
casually, ‘Up for a Saturday night out, then? Something to take your mind off
all that shit?’

‘Where?’

‘Newquay. There’s a beach barbecue tonight.
Some of my surfer friends are going. Then we could hit the clubs, go dancing.’

‘All
of them?’

He
grins. ‘We don’t have to if you don’t fancy that scene. We could float the
coast instead. See what else is happening.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

‘Pick you up at six, then. At the cottage.’

‘I’ll
be there.’

Denzil
takes another drag on his roll-up, then offers it to me.

‘I
told you, no thanks.’

He
blows out the smoke, looking at me through narrowed eyes, then bends his head
to kiss me.

His
lips are warm, his skin rough and stubbly. I hook a hand round the back of his
neck, pull him closer. His tongue plays lazily against mine, exploring my mouth.
He tastes of smoke but I find that sexy, just like I find his casual attitude
to dating attractive. Denzil is elusive, yes, but at least that means he’s
never going to trap me into a long-term commitment.

I
close my eyes, enjoying the hot sunshine on my back as we kiss. His hand gently
caresses my breast, and I wonder what tonight’s date will be like.

We
are interrupted a few minutes later by loud, abrasive coughing. An old man in a
flat cap is browsing through the shed selection, and has seen us kissing. Frowning,
the old man stops to stare at us through the narrow gap between a wooden pagoda
and a tool store, then wags his finger as though we have been caught
misbehaving.

‘Christ,’
I say, startled.

I
think at first that I know him from the village, but when I study him more
carefully, I don’t. The old man must be at least seventy-five, maybe older. His
hair is white and he’s wearing a thick woollen scarf pulled up to his chin,
though it’s quite warm today. He’s tall but stooping in an exaggerated way, as
though he needs a stick for walking but has forgotten to bring it with him. And
he has huge bushy eyebrows under his flat cap; they look unlikely and
theatrical, like they’ve been stuck on with glue.

‘Nosy
old sod,’ Denzil mutters, drawing back. Reluctantly, he drops his roll-up into
the pot of earth, then stands up. ‘Break’s over though. Thanks for coming to
see me.’

‘Six
o’clock,’ I remind him, a little embarrassed, tidying my clothes.

He
nods, and trudges off past the sheds, presumably to fetch another trolley load
of manure for the display pallets.

I leave him and the old man in the sunshine, and
wander back through the garden centre aisles and past the office. It’s empty, neither
Jago nor his dad anywhere to be seen. Probably on the shop floor, dealing with
customers. The garden centre is always busy on Saturdays at this time of year,
people buying new tools and young plants for summer bedding. I notice several shoppers
looking at me sideways, then whispering to each other. I can imagine what
they’re saying.

And maybe they’re right. Maybe I am stark
staring mad. Because they never did find the dead woman. So if she existed,
what happened to her? Dead people do not get up and walk about on their own. Either
she was only pretending to be dead, or somebody moved her body after I had
left. Both of which are far-fetched scenarios, at best.

I
have to concede that it’s possible I imagined her. But that is not going to
stop me trying to discover the truth.

About to leave, my gaze falls on a framed
colour photograph on the wall of the office. It’s new. Or rather, the
photograph is old, but the frame looks brand-new and I have no memory of seeing
it there before.

I lean close to the glass of the office window.
It appears to be a school photograph from several decades ago. The school kids
are gathered outdoors around a huge and lavishly decorated Christmas tree,
their haircuts and uniforms old-fashioned, their shirt lapels narrow and
pointed. It must have been taken in the seventies, by the look of it.

I
glance around, but Jago is nowhere in sight. I slip through the office door,
which is ajar, and stand in front of the framed photograph.

It’s the girl to the left that interests me. I
know that face. And her eyes, so familiar. There’s a boy beside her, taller,
his arm around her shoulder. It’s a possessive gesture. I frown, not
recognising him. His eyes are narrowed, he has lanky shoulder-length hair, and
he’s smiling. Somehow I don’t believe that smile though. It gives me the
creeps.

‘I found that a few weeks ago in an old chest up
at my house,’ a deep male voice says. ‘It’s a good photo of her.’

I turn, startled.

It’s the owner of the garden centre, Dick
Laney. I didn’t hear him come into the office. How long has he been standing
there in the doorway, watching me?

‘Hello, Mr Laney. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be in
here, I know.’

He
smiles, coming closer. ‘Call me Dick. And it’s no problem, Eleanor, no problem
at all,’ he insists. ‘You go on now, take a good look. Only natural you should
want to look at a picture of your mother.’

‘I’ve
never seen this before. How did you get hold of it?’

‘It’s mine. My dad took it, so he’d have a
record of the Christmas tree.’ He studies the photograph, standing
shoulder-to-shoulder with me. ‘This place was only a small outfit back then,
but he sold Christmas trees to most of the village. That was the biggest tree
he had in stock that year, so he donated it to the school. We made the
decorations ourselves in class. Blue Peter stuff, you know, all tin foil and
glue and sparkly nonsense. Not bad though.’

Realization hits me and I turn to stare at him.
‘You were at school with my mum.’

‘That’s right. I was in the year above.’

I look again at the smiling boy with his arm
around my mum’s shoulder. Who was he? Her boyfriend at the time?

I glance from the photograph to Dick Laney, and
then back again. ‘Is that
you
standing next to my mother?’

‘That it is.’

‘So you were going out with her in school?’

He hesitates. ‘We were just friends.’

I look again at the photograph, my mother’s
wary expression, the smile on Dick Laney’s face, his arm looped arrogantly
about her shoulders, and am not sure I believe him.

‘Well, the tree decorations look good,’ I tell
him, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice, ‘even if they were
homemade. Very professional.’

I study my mum’s expression while pretending to
look more closely at the Christmas tree and its tin foil decorations. She is
smiling too but the smile does not reach her eyes. Then my attention is caught
by another face, half-hidden in the crowd of other kids thronging beneath the
Christmas tree. A boy with dark hair and dark eyes. He’s not looking at the
camera like everyone else, but staring across at my mother and Dick Laney.
Brooding, like a child whose toy has been snatched away.

I’ve
seen that same expression on someone else’s face, and recently too, I’m sure of
it. But whose?

‘Mr Laney, who is this?’ I ask curiously,
tapping the glass that protects the photograph.

The office telephone begins to ring, loud and
insistent.

‘Excuse
me, I have to answer this.’ Dick Laney turns away and picks up the phone. ‘Good
morning, Woods Valley Garden Centre, how may I help you?’ He hesitates,
frowning. ‘Yes, we sell a wide range of garden ornaments. Gnomes too.’ As he
listens to the customer, his gaze slowly returns to the photograph on the wall.
‘Five-thirty close on a Saturday. That’s not a problem, sir.’

He
puts the phone down on the charging cradle.

‘Sorry to be interrupting your work like this,’
I say quickly, worried he may ask me to leave without answering my question. ‘I
promise I’ll be out of your way in a minute. But who is this boy?’

Dick
Laney picks up a pen and taps it on the desk, frowning across at the framed
photograph. ‘Which … which one?’

I
show him again.

He
steps closer as though to check, but I get the feeling he already knows exactly
who I mean and is stalling. ‘That looks like Mortimer Clemo.’

I stare, not sure I heard him properly. ‘The
vicar
?’

‘He weren’t no vicar then.’ There’s a sharp
tone to his voice that wasn’t there before. Anger? Contempt? He tosses the pen
back onto the desk. ‘Morty was always
odd
at school, I suppose. But I don’t think he got God until much later on.’ He
laughs, and for the first time I see Dick Laney’s resemblance to his son in
that sneering look. ‘Probably couldn’t hold down a proper job, and realised the
church was his only chance to earn a decent wage.’

‘I
didn’t know he went to school with my mum.’

‘Ah,
there’s a fair few of us about.’ He glances impatiently at the door. ‘Sorry,
but I’ve got work to do.’

‘Of
course.’

Before leaving the office, I take a final look
at Mortimer Clemo in the old photograph, his tight expression as he stands
there in his duffel coat, watching Angela Blackwood.

So
both Dick Laney and the vicar went to school with my mother. I’m not sure what
to make of that new information. Though, as Dick said, quite a number of the
middle-aged people in the village would have been at school at the same time
too, and not all of them come from upcountry.

But
how close was she to Mortimer Clemo?

Heading towards the exit from the garden
centre, I realise the old man in the flat cap is watching me again. He’s
standing in the hosepipe display area, right behind one of the largest reels,
peering through the gap at me. His cap is pulled down to hide his face but he’s
staring at me from under those ludicrous bushy eyebrows. Staring as though he
knows me.

There’s only one explanation for that.

I glare at him. The old man backs away, almost
falling over a display of spades in his hurry. I watch until he’s shuffled
round the corner towards the bedding plants display area, then head out into
the sunshine.

That
bloody newspaper report.

Denzil was right. I
feel much better sitting in his battered jeep with my bare feet on the
dashboard, listening to music as we swing across the moor on our way to the
north coast. The sun is shining, and I’m wearing my hair down at last, and a
short dress for dancing.

I realise Denzil is staring at my bare legs. ‘Eyes
on the road, please.’

He
laughs, but looks back at the road obediently enough. ‘I love the anklet. Very
sexy.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Did you bring your bikini?’

I stare at him in dismay. ‘I didn’t know we’d
be swimming.’

He shrugs big shoulders. He’s changed his
clothes since work, wearing cut-off denim shorts and an old white tee-shirt
with a black leather waistcoat, hanging open. His deejay gear. It’s a very sexy
look, but not what I was expecting to see tonight.

‘Beach
barbecue. There’ll be surfers there. Maybe some lifeguards off-duty, kicking
back for a few hours once the sun’s gone down. Most of us go in the water at
some point.’ His sideways grin is wicked. ‘You can always strip it all off. Go
skinny-dipping.’

‘In your dreams.’

He laughs again, and shakes his head. His tawny
curls bounce. ‘I know which way the wind blows.’

‘Oh yeah?’

Denzil looks at me more seriously. ‘Look,
before there are any misunderstandings, let’s get one thing straight. I’m helping
you out tonight as a friend, Ellie. I’m not taking you to Newquay so I can get
you into bed.’

I
stare at him, taken aback by his bluntness. ‘Okay.’

‘The
last thing you need right now is someone else screwing with your head. I
figured you could do with a night out, that’s all. So shake it loose,
whatever’s bothering you, and let’s have a good time.’

I’m secretly disappointed but he’s probably
right. I’m still not sure what the question is, but sex is unlikely to be the
answer.

‘Thanks,
I appreciate it.’

He
hesitates. ‘But?’

‘But
nothing, really. Things on my mind, you know.’ I lean my head back against the
seat, enjoying the wind in my hair. Yes, he’s definitely right. I do need to
shake it loose, this feeling of dread and
déja-vu
.
‘I’m seeing a specialist again.’

‘What kind of specialist?’

I hesitate, not sure if I want to say it out
loud. But this is Denzil. I know it won’t go any further. ‘A hypnotist. To help
me calm down and maybe remember what happened.’

‘Hypnotherapy?’ Denzil slows down for a tight
bend in the lane, staring ahead. ‘Hold on, didn’t they try that before?’

‘When
I was younger, yes, and I kept getting in trouble with the police. It might
work better now.’ Briefly, I explain about Dr Quick. ‘She regresses me to the
day of my mother’s murder, and records everything I say under hypnosis. She
does that repeatedly.’

‘Why?’

‘I
think she hopes that by asking different questions each time, she may be able
to drag up new information from my subconscious. Or at least get my head to
process my emotions properly, so I can forget what happened that day and move
on with my life.’ I feel uncomfortable, talking about it. ‘Dr Quick thinks I’m
stuck in the past, emotionally speaking. That I need
closure
, as the Americans put it.’

‘But
you don’t like going to see her?’ Denzil sounds curt, as if he does not
approve. ‘So don’t go. Refuse the treatments.’

‘I don’t have a choice, Denzil.’

‘Everyone has a choice.’

‘I don’t have anything. Except a psychosis.’

‘Says
who?’

I
close my eyes, seeing their faces. ‘The doctor. The police. My father. Hannah,
probably. Everyone, in other words.’

‘For
what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re crazy.’

‘Thanks,’
I say again.

‘No
more than I am, anyway.’

I
laugh, hearing the cynical note in his voice. ‘That’s me off the hook, then. I’m
so relieved.’

The dance music changes to a moody tune I don’t
recognise: wistful, haunting, with a female vocalist who sounds American. When
I open my eyes, Denzil is mouthing the words as he drives, not looking at me.
He seems lost in his own world.

I fold my arms across my chest and stare at the
wild moorland ahead of us, a patchy brownish-green of grass and heather strewn
with whitened boulders. It’s so barren and wind-swept on the moor that nothing
much seems to grow; even the native ponies look stunted and thin-ribbed. It’s a
hard life up here. The wild ponies are hunted and driven across the moors once
their numbers grow too high, so they can be trapped and culled if no one agrees
to purchase them. Like they’re vermin. It’s a disgrace. But I don’t know what
the solution is.

I wonder what Denzil is thinking. Perhaps he secretly
believes I’m mad too, seeing dead bodies that aren’t there. But then why would
he encourage me to turn down hypnosis?

He draws up at a narrow crossroads, tall
hedgerows blocking our view in every direction, then roars across the junction,
changing gear noisily.

‘Look,’ Denzil says, ‘however bad this gets,
don’t forget you’re not under suspicion of any crime here. You were a child
when your mum died, and I agree you had no choices back then. Neither of us had
choices over what they did to us as kids. But if you don’t want this doctor
messing with your head, with your memories of your mother, for God’s sake, then
you should tell her – and the police – where to stick it.’

The hedgerows have fallen away to long expanses
of flat rock and sparse moorland. The land stretches for miles on either side
of the road, no fences, no houses, just the occasional dirt track leading into
wilderness. It’s lonely up here on the moors, even when the tourist season is
in full swing. There are so many places to hide once you leave the road. There
are wooded slopes and crags, and lakes and treacherous marshlands. You could go
walking and disappear up here, fall down and die in a ditch, and no one would
find your body for days. Maybe even weeks or months.

‘I will. Next time.’

‘Good for you. You’ve got to stand up for
yourself. Don’t let the bastards push you around.’

‘I don’t let anyone push me around. I was only
a kid the first time round, or I would have said no then. I may say no now, I
haven’t decided yet.’

‘Remind me what happened before?’

‘I went round the bend a bit when I was about
ten. Ran away from home, did some stupid stuff. The police got involved, forced
my dad to take me for therapy. Do you remember?’

‘Not so much, sorry.’ He shrugs. ‘I was
probably in trouble myself back then. Too busy fighting my own demons to notice
yours.’

Denzil had a difficult childhood too, got
arrested a few times as a kid for minor offences. That’s probably why I find it
so easy to talk to him. He knows how bad the fallout can become when the world
tilts the wrong way on its axis, even for a few minutes.

‘The police recommended Dr Quick,’ I explain. ‘She
was just starting out in her practice. She thought hypnosis would help stop the
nightmares.’

He looks at me. ‘Nightmares?’

‘It’s
stupid, really. Forget it. I don’t like talking about it.’

‘Try
me,’ he insists.

I’m
embarrassed by this trip down memory lane. It’s the last thing I wanted when I
agreed to go out with him. But maybe talking it through with Denzil will help
me get the past straight in my own head.

‘I
used to wake up in the night and think someone was watching me. Standing over
my bed, or by the window. But whenever I put the light on, there was never
anyone there.’

He nods as if he understands. ‘So did the
hypnosis work?

‘For a while, yes. I stopped having the
nightmares.’ I do not mention that they have returned in the past few months. I
don’t want him to think I’m unbalanced. ‘But looking back, I think those sessions
were as much for the police as me. They wanted me to describe the killer. The
doctor used to ask me what he looked like, what he was wearing – ’

‘
What
?’

Suddenly intent, Denzil reaches out and snaps off
the music. He’s so serious, I’ve never seen him look like that before.

‘You were able to remember under hypnosis who
murdered your mother?’ he demands, staring at me like he’s never seen me before.
‘You mean, you know who the killer is?’

I
shake my head. ‘My therapist usually regresses me to the morning of my mother’s
murder to see if we can uncover anything new. But I only ever remember seeing the
killer from the back. Oh, and a pair of white trainers. Never any new details.
Nothing that the police didn’t already know from the description I gave at the
time.’

I choose not to mention what the doctor said, that
I had used the word “recognised” this time, talking about the killer’s white
trainers. It’s a new and private fact, something I want to keep to myself a
while longer.

Denzil says nothing, but I suspect he’s
disappointed. He looks back at the road.

‘The police weren’t thrilled by our lack of
success,’ I continue, ‘as you can imagine. They were hoping I’d be able to
identify the killer. But I probably never saw his face.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘If I’d seen the killer’s face, I would have
said so at the time. Told the police, and done a photo fit so they could catch
him. I was only six, yes, and I was terrified. But that’s not something you
easily forget. The face of the man who murdered your mother.’

‘I
can imagine.’

‘I
hate being hypnotised. It takes away your control, your privacy. There’s
nowhere to hide. But I can’t deny that it calms me down. I stopped behaving
like an idiot after I had those first sessions, and started focusing on my work
instead. So I guess it’s useful in that respect.’

‘And now the police think another few sessions
with a hypnotist will sort your head out again? Because of what happened in the
woods?’

‘Something like that.’

The jeep is open-topped. The air feels chilly
this high up, despite the sunshine. I slump in my seat, my hair whipping in my
eyes as we accelerate across the moors.

Denzil glances at me, then strokes a few
strands away from my face. ‘Hey, babe, don’t cry. You ever need a bolt hole,
you know how to get hold of me.’

‘Thanks,’ I tell him. ‘Always assuming you can remember
where your charger is.’

He
grins. ‘Always assuming that, yes.’