The Shade of Hettie Daynes (14 page)

Rob looked at him. ‘We’re going to investigate.’

‘How?’

Rob shrugged. ‘Dig about in the mud, see what turns up.’

The reporter smiled. ‘Such as?’

‘Well . . . something that’ll tell us who she was. Like . . . I dunno, a ring or a bracelet or something.’

‘She?’ queried Fox. ‘Why d’you think it’s a woman?’

‘ ’S obvious,’ said Bethan. ‘It’s the ghost, isn’t it?’

Fox chuckled. ‘If you know that, why d’you need clues?’

‘We want to prove she’s Hettie Daynes.’

Fox looked puzzled. ‘What – as in
daft as Hettie Daynes
, you mean?’

Bethan nodded. ‘Yes.’

The reporter shook his head. ‘But she’s not real, Bethan. It’s just an expression people use –
daft as Hettie Daynes
. It’s like
daft as a brush
, or
daft as a box of frogs
.’

‘No it isn’t,’ snapped Harry. ‘Hettie Daynes was real. She was our mum’s great, great auntie. She vanished.’

Fox frowned at the boy. ‘Are you winding me up, lad?’

Harry shook his head. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘He isn’t,’ put in Alison. ‘His mum asked me not to go as Hettie Daynes to the Hallowe’en Hop. That’s why I went as the ghost.’

‘But . . .?’ The reporter looked bewildered. ‘You think they’re the same person – isn’t that what you’re saying?’

Alison nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘So, isn’t going as the ghost the same as going as Hettie Daynes? I don’t understand.’

‘No.’ Bethan shook her head. ‘It’s not the same, Mr Fox. See – Aly was going to go in torn clothes, dirty and crying, ’cause that’s what Hettie was like before she disappeared. She wouldn’t be wet. The ghost’s wet because she comes up out of the water – well, you’ve seen the snapshot.’

‘Budge up a bit, Rob,’ growled Fox. Rob shuffled along the bench and the reporter sat down, leaning forward to see Bethan. ‘But your mum didn’t mind Alison going as the ghost?’

‘No, ’cause she says the ghost
isn’t
her great, great auntie. In fact she doesn’t believe there
is
any ghost. She says it’s just a local legend.’

‘Ah.’ Fox nodded. ‘So she hasn’t seen your snapshot?’

‘ ’Course not. I told you – she’d kill me if she knew I was even
at
the res that night.’

‘Right.’ Fox sat quietly for a bit, frowning at the concrete floor. Then he roused himself and said, ‘Yes, all right. We
ought
to tell the police about the bones and it might come to that in the end, but we’ll leave it for the moment. Let me know if you
find
anything interesting.’ He stood up, looked down at them. ‘Investigate, but please follow these three rules. One: stick together. Nobody is to be at the reservoir by herself or himself at any time. Two: keep away from the water at all times. It’s very deep, and very cold. And three: don’t disturb the bones. Dig round them if you must, but leave them as they lie – it might be important later on.’

They watched him walk away, then pulled on their wellies and left the shelter.

FIFTY-SIX

FOX DROVE BACK
to the
Echo
building in Rawton. He got a coffee from the dispenser in the newsroom, carried it to his cubicle and shut the door. He sat, sipping and staring at the wall.

Hettie Daynes. Alison gives Bill that name at the school. Says she thinks it’s the ghost’s name. Bill jots it down, Reginald Hopwood overhears and tells him not to put it in the paper. Threatens him
.

And before that, a couple of Saturdays ago, Reginald has his knickers in a twist about sightseers at Wilton Water. Wants security stepped up. A piece in the paper wouldn’t do any harm, he says
.

Now it turns out there’s a human skeleton at the reservoir, and a bunch of inquisitive kids have found it. A guy with a suspicious mind might almost think Hopwood knew something was there
.

The reporter drained the styrofoam cup, crunched it in his fist and lobbed it into the wastepaper basket. Ridiculous of course – how could Hopwood know any such thing? How could
anyone
? The skeleton had been under six feet of water, probably for donkey’s years. Nobody could’ve known it was there.

Hettie Daynes, though. Fox scribbled the name on a pad, gazed at it. Wrote
daft as
in front of it. A local expression that turns out to refer to an actual person who vanished. A great, great auntie. So, a long time ago then. He frowned.

Suppose the kids’re right, and the skeleton belongs to this vanished girl, Hettie Daynes. Why would Councillor Hopwood not want her name printed in the
Echo
? Is it possible he knows something about her – something he’d rather keep hidden? Bit far-fetched, but hard to account for his peculiar behaviour otherwise
.

Some people would put it down to sheer coincidence, but I’m not some people
.

I’m Curiosity Fox
.

FIFTY-SEVEN

CARL STUDIED HIS
reflection in his parents’ bedroom mirror. The swelling had gone down, but his ear and cheek were still tinged with blue.

‘Pig.’ He glowered at the image of his father in the wedding photo. He wasn’t supposed to be in this room, but the councillor was out. And so, for once, was his wife. There was a civic reception for some overseas visitors at Rawton Town Hall, and the partners of councillors were expected to attend.

Carl picked up the photo and held it close to his face. ‘Fat, puffed-up, red-faced bullying pig,’ he snarled. ‘Why don’t you stand on top of the
London
Eye and lose your balance?’ In fact, his father was neither fat nor red-faced in the picture. Years of soft living had thickened the racing-snake figure, broken tiny blood vessels in the face and shortened the temper, to produce the Reginald his son and heir despised.

He put the photo down and left the room. There was one place in the house even more off limits to him – the councillor’s office. It was an attic room under the slope of the roof. Reginald had his computer there, and a steel filing cabinet which was always locked. It was also the room where the Hopwood family archive was stored.

It was his father’s pride and joy, this archive. It consisted of trunkful after trunkful of letters, photographs, certificates, invitations, bills of fare, copies of speeches, illuminated addresses, medals, trophies, and badges, hats and jackets from the uniforms of forgotten orders and disbanded regiments. They were symbols of the distinguished lives of Hopwood ancestors, stretching all the way back to the eighteenth century and the birth of Josiah Hopwood, builder of Hopwood Mill and founder of the family fortune.

Reginald was rightly proud of his ancestors, and treasured these mouldering testimonials to their glory. He intended going through all this stuff eventually, getting it into some sort of logical order, but hadn’t got round to it yet.

Which is a pity, because the archive contained an item which would blow his world apart.

FIFTY-EIGHT

‘HI, AVRIL – THANKS
for coming at such short notice.’ The historian stood aside to let his friend enter, then closed the door. ‘Coffee or tea? Kettle’s on.’

It was seven o’clock Saturday evening. The woman smiled, nodded. ‘Coffee’ll be fine, thanks.’ She sat down in an armchair. Steve went through to the kitchen. ‘So,’ said Avril, when they were settled with coffee. ‘What’s all the excitement about, Steve?’

‘Bones.’

‘Bones?’ The pathologist looked at him through the steam from her cup. Steve nodded.
‘Human
bones, exposed by the draining of Wilton Water and found today by a bunch of kids from the village.’

‘Wow!’ exclaimed Avril. ‘You sure they’re human?’

Steve nodded. ‘Absolutely. Complete skeleton, virtually.’

‘You’ve told the police, of course.’

‘Uh – no.’ He smiled at her expression. ‘They’re old bones, Avril. I don’t know
how
old, of course, which is where you come in.’

‘Oh it is, is it?’ The woman blew on her coffee, took a sip. ‘I’m not sure I ought to get involved.’ She frowned. ‘It’s got to be an offence surely, keeping something like this to yourself?’

The historian shrugged. ‘I dunno. Anyway . . .’ He grinned. ‘When did
you
start worrying about what’s an offence and what isn’t? Last
I
heard, you were still the same old maverick.’ He produced the bone he’d removed from the site. ‘Here. Lighten up and tell me what you think.’

The woman examined the bone, turning it this way and that under the electric light. Steve watched her over the rim of his cup till she looked up. ‘Well, it’s a clavicle. Old, as you said,
but
I can’t tell how old by just looking. I’d have to do tests.’

‘Will you do ’em for me, Avril?’

She pulled a face. ‘I suppose so.’ She looked at him. ‘It’d help if I could see the rest of it, Steve.’

He nodded. ‘No prob. Were you doing anything special tomorrow?’

FIFTY-NINE

EIGHT O’CLOCK ON
Monday morning. The Hopwoods at breakfast. A silent, awkward meal. Felicity avoids talking to her husband, who tends to be savage in the mornings at the best of times. As for Carl, he’s got a secret he can’t share with either of them. He found it Saturday night, rooting in the archive. The ink’s faded and the writing’s hard to read, but he suspects it’s seriously weird. It’s in the backpack he takes to school. He stares at his soggy cornflakes, imagining what would happen if his father suddenly took it into his head to look through his son’s stuff.

Nightmare.

The councillor’s mobi chimes. He swears, slams down the butter knife, stabs the talk button. ‘Hopwood.’

‘Ah . . . morning, Councillor. You won’t know me, but I voted for you last—’

‘Hang on.’ He shoves back his chair, gets up and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Mother and son exchange looks. Neither speaks, but they’re thinking the same thought.
Councillor Hopwood, busy man. Can’t even eat breakfast in peace, he’s so indispensable – and oh, how he loves it
.

He’s in full flow, they can hear him faintly through the door. After ten minutes he comes back.