‘What do you want?’ she says with a bite in her voice. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The boy is taller than Becky, almost six foot, older than her, I suspect. His faded yellow baseball cap covers shiny black hair, a long fringe hangs over one of his mud-brown eyes – eyes that are vacant, as though he doesn’t see what’s in front of him. He doesn’t speak.
‘Are you looking for Willow?’ I say.
‘Do you know where she is?’ Becky adds, but he just looks up at the house, then down at his feet.
‘Who are you?’ I ask.
He lifts his gaze once more, studies us for a few seconds, before taking off, sprinting until he’s out of sight.
‘What the hell?’ Becky looks at me wide-eyed.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I reply, leading the way up the path, feeling emotionally battered. ‘This just gets weirder and weirder.’
*
After a morning of going over everything and constantly checking my phone, I suggest a walk to the village shop. Becky declines. She says she’s going to watch TV to take her mind off things.
Slathering sun cream on my arms, I head down the road in my white vest-top and knee-length shorts, feeling guilty that I’m enjoying the sun on my face – the sounds of the countryside. Again, I wish I was here on holiday.
The village store is in dire need of renovation, and the amalgamation of smells – spices, bread, vegetables – that greet me as I head up the aisle of the shop, confuses my senses.
I place two pints of milk in the wire basket I’m carrying and open a small chest freezer. I grab a box of chicken in breadcrumbs, and some frozen veg – it’s not very exciting so I doubt I’ll tempt Becky to eat. I keep hoping her food obsession is a phase she’s going through – that nagging too much will only make it worse. But then I don’t want her ending up like Willow did.
The woman in her sixties behind the counter smiles as I return with the basket and unload it.
‘You on holiday?’ she says, blowing a tendril of ginger hair from her tanned, plump face. She’s wearing a pale pink short-sleeved blouse, over black trousers. A necklace with a large pink stone hangs around her neck. ‘You’ve picked a gorgeous week.’
‘Yes, the weather’s perfect,’ I say. ‘We’re staying at Ocean View Cottage.’ Her hand freezes on the till.
‘Really? She pauses for a moment. ‘Are you a friend of Willow’s?’
‘She’s my stepsister, but she’s not there at the moment.’
‘Nice girl,’ she says, continuing to ring up the items. ‘£6.95, please, love.’
I hand over a ten-pound note, and with a deep breath, I say, ‘Do you remember the Millars?’
‘Ooh, I got a tingle of déjà vu just then,’ she says, with a shudder, pressing her ample chest. ‘That’s exactly what she asked. Willow, I mean.’ She hands me my change and rams the till drawer closed. ‘Well, of course I remember the murder. Everyone around here does. Young Ava Millar’s death was a terrible tragedy.’ She shakes her head and bites her lip as she stares into space. ‘I hadn’t been here long when it happened.’ She rubs her neck, avoids eye contact. ‘You just don’t expect it in a quaint little village like Bostagel, do you? Only good things should happen here.’
She’s right. The village is stunning. Picture-postcard perfect.
‘Taking over the shop,’ she went on, ‘meant I got to know people quickly.
The mother, Jeannette Millar, didn’t mix much with us village folk, kept herself to herself mostly, even before Ava’s murder. The older daughter, Gail, was a beauty. Full of her own importance, God rest her soul. Now I liked Ava well enough, but she had another side to her. In fact, my son Dexter worked with her for a bit at the big DIY in Newquay. Took her out once, he did.’
‘Dexter?’ My mind swings back to my conversation with the inspector earlier. ‘Dexter Powell is your son?’
‘Uh-huh. Yes.’
Trying to keep my voice even, I say, ‘Does he still live here?’
‘Lord no. Hasn’t lived with me for years. In fact, he doesn’t come to Cornwall often.’ There was a sudden sadness in her voice. ‘Though he calls me every Sunday without fail. He’s always been a good boy.’ She pauses for a moment before adding, ‘It was a crying shame what happened to those young Millar girls.’ Her eyes tear over. After all these years, it still distresses her. ‘How can such a terrible tragedy happen to two young girls?’
‘
‘It’s truly awful,’ I agree, tears filling my eyes too. This is getting to me. Just as it got to Willow.
Chapter 24
AVA
2001
‘Gran will look after you,’ Ava said, stroking Willow’s cheek.
‘No! No! No!’ Willow cried, banging her legs against the highchair, and throwing Marmite soldiers across the room. It was getting harder to leave Willow with her mother. The problem was, Jeannette tended to plonk her granddaughter in front of the TV while she went about her day, which may have worked for her own children, but Willow needed so much more. She was an imaginative child, who needed constant stimulation.
‘Hey, what’s all the racket?’ Peter appeared in the lounge doorway, looking pale and smelling of last night’s alcohol, his eyes bloodshot.
Ava lifted Willow from the highchair. ‘She doesn’t like staying with Mum while I’m at work,’ she whispered, glancing through the patio doors at Jeannette hanging out washing, battling with a sheet in the wind.
‘Well, I’m here,’ he said. He turned his attention to Willow, ‘We can play together.’ He tickled the little girl’s tummy, making her giggle.
Ava felt a rush of confusion. He sounded so genuine. Kind.
Willow reached out her chubby arms to him, and Peter winked at Ava as he took the child from her. ‘Now go get ready for work, aye?’
‘Thanks,’ she said, but she didn’t move.
‘Go, before I change my mind,’ he said with a laugh, kneeling down on the floor with Willow. He grabbed a cardboard box with her toys in with his free hand. ‘We’ll be just fine.’
Ava still waited, watching them play for a while. She had to admit, Peter had a way with Willow, and an oddly comforting memory flooded into her mind. Peter reading to her when she was a child. He must have been about fifteen. The book was Little Red Riding Hood. Peter was doing all the voices – so scary as the Big Bad Wolf – and making her giggle. She’d felt secure snuggled in his arms, hadn’t she?
*
‘This is Dexter.’
Ava turned from loading five-litre tins of magnolia emulsion onto the shelves at the DIY store where she worked, to see her boss Eric – short, chubby, looking far too stressed – with a dark-haired man of about twenty. Despite being anti-men at that moment, her traitor heart gave a leap. She’d seen him before – the son of the woman who’d taken over the village shop – but she’d never spoken to him.
‘Dexter started this morning, Ava,’ Eric continued, shoving an apron at Dexter. ‘Can I leave him with you? He’ll need to get up to speed in the garden centre. We’re expecting a rush on bird tables at the weekend.’
Ava wiped her hands, grubby from the tins, down her bright-blue apron, and held out her hand. ‘Hi,’ she said, conscious of her tatty jeans and sweatshirt, her lack of make-up. ‘I’m Ava Millar – bird table expert, it seems.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve seen you about,’ he said, shaking her hand a little awkwardly, before putting on his apron.
‘Great.’ Eric dabbed his sweaty forehead with a cloth, looked from Ava to Dexter, before dashing down the aisle towards plugs and sockets.
‘So how long have you worked here?’ Dexter asked, as they walked through giant double doors into the cold air – it had snowed earlier, not enough to settle on the ground, but enough to turn the shrubs and trees wintery white.
‘Too long,’ she said, as they walked towards the newly delivered bird tables. ‘It’s crap money, the job is boring, and some of the customers are rude, but the people who work here are nice enough �
� well, some of them.’
‘Way to sell it to me,’ he said with a laugh.
‘No, it’s OK, honestly.’
‘Well, I won’t be here long, anyway,’ he said, as they passed some sad looking plants on offer at ninety-nine pence.
‘Yeah, that’s what I said when I first arrived.’ She tucked a curl behind her ear, trying not to catch his gaze – he was nice-looking, with deep blue eyes and a cute nose.
‘No really,’ he said. ‘I’m going to uni next September. I wanted to go when I left school, but Mum couldn’t afford it. So I’ve been saving.’
‘That’s impressive.’ She meant it. She envied his determination.
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m hoping to study from home soon,’ she said, recalling her conversation with Gareth Jones.
‘Good for you.’ A smile dimpled his cheeks. ‘Education is our ticket out of here, Ava.’ They had reached the bird tables. ‘So what’s the low down on these?’ he said, nudging one with his trainer.
‘Ava!’ The yell came from the double doors they had just walked through. She turned to see Peter, his arm raised in the air.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to Dexter, and raced towards her brother whose panicked look sent her heart racing. ‘What’s wrong?’ She cleared her throat. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s Willow,’ he said, catching his breath. ‘You need to come. She’s had an accident.’
*
‘What happened?’ Ava raced across the DIY store’s car park, trying to keep up with Peter, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Is she OK?’
‘He just appeared at the house. Said he wanted to see her.’
‘Who did?’
Peter unlocked his car doors, and they climbed in.
‘Who did?’ she cried, wrestling with the seatbelt, dashing away a tear from her cheek. ‘You’re scaring me.’
‘She’s with Mum at the hospital. She was unconscious for a while.’
‘Oh my God!’ She pressed down her skull with her hands. ‘Oh my God!’
‘They said she’ll be OK,’ he went on, starting the engine. ‘Try not to worry, Ava.’ He rammed the car into first gear and pulled away.
‘Try not to worry?’ It was a ridiculous statement. Of course she was going to worry about her darling girl.
‘She’ll be OK. Honestly.’
‘Who was it? Who turned up at the house?’ she snapped. ‘How the hell did this happen?’ Had her brother neglected Willow? She should never have left him responsible for her. What had she been thinking? She hardly knew him. ‘Peter?’
‘Justin.’
‘Justin came to the house?’
‘He said he wanted to see Willow.’
‘And you let him in?’
‘No! Mum did. She thought everything was OK between you two. He is Willow’s father.’
‘But it’s over.’ Tears dripped from Ava’s chin. ‘I told him last night that he couldn’t see her anymore.’
‘Well, you should have told us.’ His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
She nodded. ‘I just can’t believe he came to the house.’ The thought brought on fresh tears. ‘How did it happen?’ She sniffed and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers.
‘Well, I was playing with her in the lounge when he appeared in the doorway, like he owned the place. Mum introduced him as Willow’s dad, said he’d come to see her. I had no choice but to leave them to it. I went upstairs. Next thing Mum’s yelling at Justin, saying he couldn’t take her, so I raced down again. There was a bit of a set to. Justin yelling, Mum crying – normal stuff really.’ He half-smiled again, but it disappeared when his eyes met Ava’s. ‘Willow wiggled and fell from his arms, cracked her forehead on the coffee table as she went down.’
‘Oh my God,’ Ava cried, covering her mouth.
‘We couldn’t get her to come round, so rushed her to hospital. But she’s going to be OK, you’ll see.’
Ava stared again at her brother with his sallow skin and scruffy hair. A sudden sharp memory of him punching his fist through the lounge door came and went. Had he really changed that much?
‘Where’s Justin now?’ she asked.
‘He took off as soon as Willow fell. Couldn’t see the bastard for dust. Honestly, Ava, you need to get him out of your life.’
‘I know. I really didn’t think he’d turn up at the house.’ She covered her face with her hands, rubbed away the tears. ‘He hasn’t wanted to see us for months.’
‘You want my opinion, Ava?’
‘Not really.’ She glanced out of the side window, watching the frosty world pass her by.
‘He’s a psycho. In fact, how did you ever get mixed up with him in the first place?’
‘I was only sixteen when we met. I believed fate had thrown us together at the right time. His mum had died. My life was crap. We were meant for each other.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘His dad started drinking, couldn’t cope with life without his wife – had some sort of guilt trip too. Justin got mixed up with the Bristow brothers – got into drugs. I stuck with him for ages though. I don’t know why.’
‘Maybe you were rebelling against Mum.’
‘Maybe. She thought I was a failure, so I proved her right.’ She gave a strangled laugh.
‘Mum cares too much what people say about our family, and we’ve let her down, Ava. I reckon we’ll always be the black sheep.’
‘I know.’ She tried for a smile, feeling slightly calmer. ‘Safety in numbers though, aye? Anyway, as far as Justin’s concerned, it’s over.’
‘I’m sorry, Ava,’ he said, sounding genuine. ‘Although you should never trust a bloke whose eyes are too close together.’ He looked at her and smiled. He couldn’t help the way he was, but this was no time for jokes. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Joking is my go-to when I’m stressed.’
‘And alcohol?’
‘Uh-huh, that too. What can I say? I’m not proud of that fact. I want to change, but it’s hard.’
He was facing forward now, concentrating on the road.
‘I thought I loved Justin, you know,’ she said quietly, remembering the moment they’d met by the sea in Newquay.
There was a silence for some time, before they pulled up at a red light. ‘Your turn,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Tell me about your love life – you said you were married.’
He glanced her way, and she saw, for the first time, pain in her brother’s eyes. ‘I told you before, she didn’t want kids,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to go there right now.’
She looked through the front windscreen, the hospital now in view. Her stomach flipped with anxiety as Peter pulled into a space in the car park. She threw off her seatbelt and opened the door. ‘Are you coming in then?’ she said, jumping from the car.
They ran to the entrance and through the automatic doors, into the hospital.
‘So do you still love her?’ she said, trying to keep her mind occupied as they raced towards the lifts.
‘Who?
‘Your wife.’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose so. What is love anyway?’
‘If you’re lucky it’s the best thing ever. But it’s still something you have to work at.’
‘And you’re the expert.’
‘Clearly not – but I was young, and thought I loved Justin. I tried to make it work – at first, anyway.’
‘He wasn’t worth a moment of your time, Ava.’
‘I know.’ She paused, as they reached the lifts, fear rising at the thought of seeing her little girl in a hospital bed. ‘Did you work at it, Peter? Did you work at your marriage?’
‘I wanted kids, Ava, she didn’t.’
‘Maybe she would have changed her mind in time.’
‘Maybe,’ he said.
They took the lift, and as the doors whooshed open at the correct floor, Ava moved fast.
‘Darling girl,’ she cried, on seeing her daug
hter. She raced to her bed and took her in her arms. ‘Whatever have you been up to?’
Willow touched the dressing on her head. ‘Got bump,’ she said, and Ava’s eyes filled with tears of relief.
Chapter 25
ROSE
Now
Back at the cottage, the shopping put away, I perch on the edge of the sofa.
I’m getting so caught up in the past – just as Willow did – far too curious about who killed Ava Millar. But it’s all connected. The more I know, the more likely I am to find Willow. I believe that.
‘Mum?’
I jump, stupidly, like a child caught with her hand in a biscuit barrel.
‘Jeez, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Becky says, a thick eyebrow arched. ‘Are you OK? You seem jumpy.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just trying to make sense of everything, that’s all.’
I’m turning my phone over in my hands when a message appears on the screen. I read it, and look up at Becky, ‘Oh God, Eleanor’s asking why we haven’t called her. She wants to know how Willow is. What the hell am I going to say?’
‘The truth.’ She plonks down next to me.
‘But it will only worry her. Willow may turn up soon.’
‘You don’t really believe that, Mum.’
‘No. No I don’t,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘In fact, I’m worried sick about her.’
‘I feel the same. But if Grandpa knows he’ll worry, and he’s not well. There’s nothing he can do anyway.’
‘But you just said to tell the truth.’
‘What I meant was, don’t lie. Say Willow’s not here yet. That we’ll get her to call her when she arrives.’
‘Yes. Yes. I’ll do that,’ I say, typing out the words on my phone as she says them. ‘No point in worrying them too, is there?’ But still I feel guilty.
*
We’ve been sitting around for hours, unsure what to do.
‘I’ll give Inspector Jones a call,’ I say at around five o’clock, picking up my phone. ‘In case he has any news.’
The call goes straight to voicemail, and I rattle off a message asking what the police are going to do, asking him to call me as soon as possible.
Traces of Her: An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a twist you'll never see coming Page 10
