by George Mann
That left the enigma that was Daisy Heddle. There was something going on with her, and he hadn’t yet been able to put his finger on it. She was definitely holding something back. He needed to get to the bottom of that, peel back the layers to find out what was underneath. Perhaps Elspeth would be able to help. He’d wait to see what she had to say about their evening.
He glanced down the lane in the direction the two women had taken. The scene was picturesque, tranquil. It was hard to believe that two violent murders had taken place in the village within the last seventy-two hours.
It wasn’t just witches who were buried here. There were secrets, too. Secrets that were now starting to reveal themselves, in dark and terrible ways. Secrets that had festered for too long. Just like Jenny Wren, he was going to have to dig them out and expose them to the light.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“This is me. Come on in.”
Daisy pushed open the door to the little cottage and flicked on the lights. They were eco-bulbs, and took a moment to warm up to full brightness. Elspeth had to duck her head under the lintel as she stepped inside. Immediately, she could see it was a pretty little place, built from old stone, with walls as thick as her forearm. Daisy had retained many of the original features but she’d decorated in a modern style, posters and paintings covering the walls, vibrant rugs on the tiled floors, local pottery and stacks of books and art materials wherever she looked.
She kicked off her boots in the narrow hallway, placing them beside a pair of Daisy’s Dr Martens, which were plastered thick with dry mud. “Been out walking in the fields?” said Elspeth.
Daisy frowned, and then smiled. “Oh, the boots. Yeah, it gets so muddy round here. I really must invest in some wellies. Tea? Wine?”
“Oh, go on then,” said Elspeth. “I can have one.”
Daisy led her through to the kitchen. She fetched two glasses and poured them both a large measure. “So that policeman,” she said, with a knowing smile. “You two seemed quite cosy.”
Elspeth gave her best ‘caught me’ expression. “We’ve been seeing each other for a little while now. He’s an old friend, and we reconnected when I moved back to the area. You know how it is.”
“Is he always so serious?” said Daisy, sipping her wine.
“Don’t you believe it,” said Elspeth. “We have a right laugh together when he’s not on a case, and I’m not on a story – which, it turns out, are often one and the same thing.”
“How often is that, then?”
“Not often enough, admittedly,” said Elspeth. “How about you? Anyone special?”
Daisy seemed to be weighing up her response. “I thought there might have been, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Rough patch?”
“Something like that,” said Daisy.
“So how long have you lived here?” said Elspeth, looking around. The kitchen was small but perfectly formed, with a modern electric cooker, a Belfast sink, a window looking out onto the small garden, and two overhead racks, from which dangled cooking pots and bunches of drying herbs. “It all seems very idyllic.”
“It took me long enough to get to this point,” said Daisy, leaning her hip against the sink. “I’ve been at the cottage for about three years. Before that I spent two years living in Sally’s spare room, after she took me in.”
“What happened? No family?”
“Long story,” said Daisy, “but Mum and Dad were killed in a car accident when I was seventeen. I kind of went to pieces. I’d only recently come out, and was still figuring out who I was.” She shrugged. “Turns out Dad hadn’t renewed the life insurance, and I lost the house. They left me with a little bit of cash, but I wasn’t in much of a state to look after myself. I’d just started working weekends at Sally’s place, and she took pity on me.” She took a gulp of her wine. “I stayed there until I was back on my feet, and then rented this place. The waitressing allows me to pay the rent, and buys me time to keep going with my art.”
“I’m sorry,” said Elspeth. “That must have been so difficult.”
“I miss them. A lot. But I’m grateful to Sally, and to my parents for bringing me up to be the person I am. They always taught me to be true to myself, and I try to stick by that.” Daisy’s phone buzzed, and she glanced at it, and then turned it over on the worktop, placing it screen down. “Look, give me a minute to get changed, will you? I hate wearing this thing.” She tugged at the front of her work uniform and pulled a face.
“Of course.”
“Go on through to the lounge. It’s the second door on the left, back along the hall. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Then you can show me some of your art,” said Elspeth.
The lounge was, like the rest of the house, an eclectic mix of the old and the new. It reminded her of Richmond’s in the way that the wonky windows and wooden beams sat hand-in-hand with purple walls and psychedelic posters, featuring bands from an era before Daisy had even been born. Before Elspeth had been born too, for that matter.
One of the alcoves beside the fireplace was filled with racks of old vinyl records, mostly from the 1980s – Human League, Stevie Wonder, Kate Bush, Peter Gabriel – albums that Elspeth still had on her phone, and that she presumed Daisy must have inherited from her parents. The other alcove was filled with books of all shapes and sizes – paperback classics, philosophical tracts, cheap thrillers and beach reads, all propped up by a towering stack of coffee-table art books, with subjects ranging from the works of Vermeer to Elizabethan architectural design.
Daisy arrived a moment later, holding the wine bottle by its neck. She’d already topped herself up.
Elspeth held out her glass. “Looks like I’m getting a taxi home, then.” She grinned.
Daisy indicated the room with a wave of her arm. “I’m sorry, I know it’s a bit of a mess. I’d meant to tidy up, but things just ran away with me last night,” she said.
“I love it,” said Elspeth. “Really. It feels lived in.”
Daisy cocked her head, and grinned. She’d changed into a pair of skinny jeans and a plaid shirt, and looked more relaxed than Elspeth had seen her so far.
“How’s your hand, by the way?”
“Oh, it’s on the mend. Still painful, but I’ll live.” She glanced at the door. “Come on, I’ll show you the studio.”
She led Elspeth up the stone steps to the first floor, each of them so smooth and worn that Elspeth felt as if she were navigating an assault course.
“You get used to them,” said Daisy, laughing.
The studio had taken over what had originally been the spare room. The view out over the rear garden was obscured by a bolt of white cloth which muted the harsh light. An easel was set up in the centre of the room, containing a canvas that had been blocked out in reds and greens, in preparation for a new work. All around the room were paintings stacked against the walls. There must have been forty or fifty of them, their surfaces turned away so that only the backs were exposed. A guitar was propped against the radiator on the back wall, and a laptop sat open on a desk, cables trailing to what looked to be a small mixing desk. The floorboards were bare and spattered with paint, and the entire room smelled of turpentine.
“Well, it’s certainly a proper studio,” said Elspeth. She supposed she’d been expecting a few paintings in a spare room or shed out the back, but this was a room that had seen serious use. “Did you do all of these?” she said, wandering over to one of the stacks.
Daisy shrugged. “Yeah, but most of them aren’t up to much. Feel free to take a look.”
Elspeth picked up the nearest canvas, turning it over in her hands. It showed the ghostly face of a woman, painted in white on a murky blue background. She was beautiful, ethereal, as if she had been born from the very light itself, swimming out from the canvas to greet Elspeth with her knowing smile. “Aren’t up to much? Daisy, this is outstanding.”
She picked up another. It depicted a woman reclining on a rock, somewhere by a lake or po
ol, half covering her naked body with a towel. Her hair was startlingly red, flowing over her pale shoulder. She was looking straight at the viewer, her coy smile captured perfectly. A third showed a young woman reading a book, hair tucked behind one ear, legs folded beneath her. She’d just looked up, as if caught by surprise, and the curve of her lips caught an attitude that was somewhere between innocent and expectant.
“I recognise her,” said Elspeth, “but I can’t place her. Is she from the village?”
“Yeah, I think so,” said Daisy. “I’ve painted so many I lose track. They’re mostly just people I get talking to, and want to capture their story.”
“You have a wonderful eye,” said Elspeth. “I’m very impressed.”
“You’ll let me paint you, then?”
Elspeth thought about it for a moment. “All right, yeah, go on.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” She put her wine glass down by the computer and grabbed her phone from her back pocket. “Let’s get some pictures, then.”
“What, now?”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” said Elspeth, feeling suddenly embarrassed.
“Do nothing,” said Daisy. She started moving around, and the phone camera flashed. Elspeth laughed. “There. See, that was easy.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup. Got everything I need.”
“Well, I look forward to seeing it,” said Elspeth. “With some trepidation.”
“Well, you’ve got an important decision to make before then,” said Daisy.
Elspeth looked at her quizzically.
“Whether you want pasta or take-out.”
“Take-out. My treat,” said Elspeth. “On the condition that you place the order. This wine’s already going to my head.”
They settled on Chinese food, and ate it cross-legged on the floor in Daisy’s lounge, finishing a second bottle of wine and playing old records that had them both singing at the top of their lungs.
This is what I’ve been missing, Elspeth realised. London was all well and good, but Abigail and the others – they were all too caught up in the social scene for a night like this. She loved Abi to bits, but when was the last time they’d really let their hair down and just had a laugh with some junk food and a couple of bottles of cheap plonk? There was always a party, always a reason to make an effort, a man to impress or something to get out of it all. Maybe this was what Abigail needed, too, and she just didn’t know it. Maybe Elspeth didn’t need London, but Abigail needed Oxford. She’d think on that.
Daisy scooped up the last forkful of sweet and sour chicken. “Tonight was just what I needed. What with everything going on, I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts recently.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“No… I…” She hesitated. “You ever just feel like you’re not yourself?”
“Under the weather, you mean? A bit run down?”
“I suppose so. It’s just, the last couple of nights I’ve felt a bit odd, that’s all. But you’re right, I’m probably just coming down with something.”
“Or fighting it off,” said Elspeth. “Just look at you tonight.”
Daisy laughed. “Yeah. I’d best keep up my vitamins,” she said, downing the last of her wine. Her phone was rumbling again, but she ignored it. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Oh, God, have you seen the time?”
Elspeth peered at the clock face. It took her a moment to work it out. It was nearly 2 am. She groaned.
“I’ve got a shift in the morning”, said Daisy. “I’d better turn in. Do you want the sofa?”
Elspeth looked at the cosy pit of cushions, and considered the wait for a taxi, the ride back to Heighton, the trip back in the morning to fetch her car. “I was going to get a taxi, but yeah, if you don’t mind.”
“I really don’t,” said Daisy. “But I’ll tell you if you snore.”
Elspeth practically snorted her last mouthful of wine.
She helped Daisy pile the dishes into the kitchen – abandoning them on the work surface for the morning – and then fired Peter a quick text:
Great night. Staying over at Daisy’s. Breakfast in the morning at Lenny’s? X
And then fell promptly asleep on the sofa.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hugh Walsey slammed the phone down on his desk and rocked back in his chair, grinding his teeth. The morning sun was streaming in through his office window, picking out the swirling dust motes in the air.
This was the last thing he needed. He’d staked everything on this house and his development of the grounds, and now, weeks away from commencing work, there was a problem with the funds.
Well, he wasn’t about to be held to ransom by his contractors. He’d call the bank, see about extending his loan against the house. A few thousand more shouldn’t hurt, and he’d make it back tenfold when the business was up and running. He’d just have to tighten his belt in the meantime; see if he could curtail Petra’s spending a little.
He just hoped he hadn’t pushed things too far. Buying Hallowdene Manor had been his dream, not hers, or Lucy’s, and now here he was, juggling bills and trying to find a way to keep it all afloat. Everything relied on getting those cottages built. Once he was renting them out he’d have everything covered, and he could get on with all the other projects he’d planned. But first he had to get them built, and that was proving far more difficult than it should have been.
At least there’d be no more interference from Lee Stroud now. That man had got everything he deserved. What right did he have to climb up there on his high horse and tell Walsey what he could and couldn’t do on his own land? That policeman had been right, Stroud had cost him both time and money, and Walsey hated him for it. If it hadn’t been for that interfering idiot, he might not be in the position he was now, being forced to retain builders at extra expense, just because of the delay.
Even in death, Stroud had still found a way to be bloody awkward, holding up the dig while the police finished going through everything with a fine-tooth comb. It was a damned inconvenience.
In the other room, he could hear Petra going off on one again. When would they bloody well learn to get on? He’d had just about enough of it. He pushed his chair back from the desk and stood, marching through to the sitting room, where Lucy was sitting on one of the sofas, hunched over her phone, while Petra was striding back and forth like some Roman orator, giving forth about why Lucy was such an inconsiderate daughter. For once, Lucy didn’t seem to have the energy to respond, tapping away on her screen with her thumbs and tartly ignoring her stepmother. At this precise moment, Walsey couldn’t say that he blamed her.
“What’s all this racket about?” he snapped, glaring at Petra. “I’m trying to work.”
Petra ceased her pacing and returned his glare, face like thunder. “She’s been sneaking out,” she said, jabbing her finger melodramatically at Lucy. “I caught her coming back in last night at one in the morning.”
Walsey looked at Lucy. “Look, don’t you think you’d better take a bit more care? With everything that’s happened… you don’t want people asking questions. Not to mention that the killer is still out there, somewhere. Why take any silly risks?”
“I didn’t take any risks, Dad. None of that’s got anything to do with me. I was just meeting a friend, that’s all,” said Lucy.
Walsey shrugged. “Petra, the girl’s nineteen years old. We can’t stop her from seeing her friends.”
Lucy looked up at him, and smiled. It was a move precisely designed to send Petra into apoplexy. “Oh, I might have thought you’d take her side in this. I’m worried about her, Hugh. We don’t know what she’s getting up to. Two people have been murdered, she’s out there alone, and you don’t think it’s a problem?”
He sighed. “Petra has a point, just while this business is cleared up by the police. Maybe if you’re going to be out you could do us the courtesy of letting us know?�
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“Okay, Dad. No problem,” said Lucy.
“There. No need for all that shouting, was there?” he said. He didn’t care if he sounded patronising. There was a time when he would have done anything for Petra, when he would have practically fallen at her feet for a single kind word. Now, he had to admit, all the drama was growing tiresome. Couldn’t they just start avoiding one another?
“Right,” he said, “I need to place a call to the bank. It would be nice if I could hear myself think.”
He stepped aside to allow Petra to barge past him and out into the hall. He heard her footsteps thundering on the stairs. “And Lucy – please try to get along with her. For my sake. I’m not asking you to act like best buddies or anything. Just a bit of toleration.”
“She’s the intolerant one, Dad,” said Lucy, finally lowering her phone. “It’s that bloody Catholic upbringing. It’s wound her as tight as a gnat’s arse.”
Despite himself, Walsey laughed. “I suppose you’re not wrong. Come here, kiddo.” He plonked himself down on the sofa beside her, wrapping her in a tight embrace. “We doing okay?”
“We’re fine, Dad. Always will be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Elspeth knew she shouldn’t really be driving, but a strong coffee at Daisy’s had helped to drown out the buzzing headache, and the bottle of water she was sipping as she sat in traffic was helping to rid her of the carpet mouth she’d woken up with.
Daisy had been up and out at the crack of dawn, trilling away in the kitchen as she made coffee as if she hadn’t even sniffed a glass of wine. She’d popped into the lounge with a mug and a set of keys for Elspeth, laughing gleefully at Elspeth’s bleary-eyed greeting, and asking her to lock up behind her and post the keys back through the door.
