‘Sorry,’ Celine says, now finding herself alone with the officers. Her mind is racing at a hundred miles an hour. ‘We’re all a bit jittery at the moment—’
‘No, no,’ the sergeant interrupts, clearly regretting his candour. He jerks his chin towards the constable and they both rise, hurriedly making their way into the hallway and towards the front door. ‘I’m sorry,’ he continues. ‘I can see this is a very difficult time for you all, and I should have judged it better. And of course, it’s very upsetting to think of someone coming to this kind of harm so nearby.’
Celine opens the front door, the sight of the wheelbarrow on the far verge a reminder of the gardener. ‘Oh, shall I see if I can find that name for you?’
Sergeant Edwards is already on the gravel, heading towards the squad car. ‘Oh, yes. PC Whitman?’
As his superior starts the engine, the constable waits on the doorstep while Celine checks the kitchen board for any details of Harry the gardener. Pip is now sitting at the table, doodling with the kids; Celine winks at her, a reassurance, and when she finds nothing on the board she returns to PC Whitman on the doorstep, where he’s now chatting with Una.
‘Sorry, there don’t seem to be any details for the gardener,’ Celine says. ‘But we’ll be sure to nab him next time he’s here, get him to give you a call.’
Una runs a hand over Celine’s back. ‘The PC was just telling me about the property down the road – the big gated one,’ she says. ‘You’ll never guess what?’
Celine shakes her head.
Una looks back at the young man. ‘He tells me it’s a women’s commune.’
Celine thinks of the women she spotted through the gate as she paused there the other day, remembering the uneasy sense she’d had as she drove away along the woodland path. The way they were dressed, so out of kilter with the grand setting of the house and grounds, had led her to assume they were workers – gardeners or landscapers – not residents.
‘A commune?’ she repeats, the word ‘cult’ popping into her head as she says it.
‘It’s called Two Cross Farm,’ PC Whitman says. ‘They’re a bit of a funny bunch by all accounts. We’re just off there to try again now. No one answered when we called before, and we’re very keen to speak to the women there.’
‘You think they know something?’
Whitman looks over his shoulder, towards the idling police vehicle. ‘I shouldn’t really—’
‘It won’t go any further,’ Una says, leaning in conspiratorially. ‘Did I mention I was a detective at Scotland Yard before I retired?’
‘The Met?’ His face lights up. After a moment’s hesitation, he goes on. ‘Well, we think there’s a chance the dead woman was a resident there.’
Una’s face remains impassive, but Celine can almost feel the vibrations of her mind whirring. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Tattoos,’ he says, lowering his voice.
‘Tattoos?’ Celine frowns.
‘Forensics told us she has tattoos, and it all adds up. Two black crosses.’ When neither Una nor Celine are able to form an answer, he elaborates. ‘Like the name of the commune, you see? Two Cross Farm? We think it could be connected.’
‘Oh,’ Celine manages as she takes in the relevance of what he’s saying. ‘Of course.’
‘Anyway,’ he says, handing Una a contact card and starting to turn away, ‘if you hear anything, you’ll let us know?’
‘These tattoos …’ Una says casually, halting him in his tracks.
Celine is aware of Pip’s presence in the entrance to the kitchen behind her, but she can’t turn away from the officer, from the question she knows Una is about to ask.
‘Whereabouts on the body were they?’
Once again, the constable glances towards the police car and back at Una and Celine. ‘I shouldn’t,’ he says, but then, quite unexpectedly, he raises his two index fingers and subtly taps his lower abdomen. Then he lifts a farewell hand, and he’s gone.
Over her shoulder Celine hears Pip’s sharp intake of breath, mirroring her own internal lurch of horror.
Softly, Una closes the door, and turns. They can hear the children’s voices from the kitchen, squabbling over some small thing, and the distant rumble of the police car retreating across the driveway. Spring sunshine cuts shards through the decorative glass panel above the door, slicing bright crescents over the polished floorboards at Celine’s feet, and she feels sick at the idea of what they’re about to say.
‘It’s probably just—’ Celine murmurs, but Pip turns fierce eyes on her, shaking her head in disbelief.
‘Don’t you dare say it’s a coincidence!’ she cries out.
They both turn to Una, looking to her as the voice of reason, the deciding vote.
‘You heard what they said about the way she was laid out? Carefully. On wooden boards?’ Pip is visibly trembling. ‘And – and – these tattoos, for Christ’s sake, Celine!’
Celine’s mind can’t keep up, and she’s desperate to think of reasons for this not to be related, not to be connected to their sister. ‘But Vanessa was found in Brighton.’
‘You said it yourself, Una, Brighton’s only twenty miles away!’ Pip blinks at Una and Celine, waiting for them to answer. ‘We can’t ignore the tattoos. I always said there was something strange about it – Vanessa was the last person you’d ever expect to get one done, and now, here we are hearing about another dead woman, with identical tattoos. Celine!Say something!’
Celine presses her back against the cool wall, anchoring herself.
‘Vanessa went to a refuge, not a commune,’ Una says, but it’s clear she’s just thinking aloud, the gears of her mind working it through.
‘We don’t actually know that,’ Pip insists.
‘She’s right, isn’t she, Una?’ Celine gulps a hard lump down, feeling light-headed; feeling too much. ‘There are too many similarities. In that phone message, Vanessa only told us she was safe – away from Jem – that she had somewhere safe to go. But did she ever actually say it was a refuge? Or did we just jump to that conclusion? I can’t remember, can you?’
Una runs the heel of her hand over her forehead. ‘I don’t know.’
‘And now, with that postcard we found in the attic, we do know that Vanessa came to see Mum in the year before she died,’ Pip says. ‘It makes sense – she came to see Mum, not because she was desperate to see her, but because she was on her way to this women’s commune – just down the road!’ For a few seconds, the three stand in silence.
Una stares back at the sisters, her eyes moving between them, calculating.
‘Mummy?’ Olive calls from the kitchen. ‘Mummy! Beebee won’t let me have the yellow!’
‘Just a minute, sweetheart!’ Pip calls out, her gaze fixed resolutely on Una.
Celine’s heart feels as though it’s about to beat right out through her ribcage. ‘Una?’ she whispers. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking,’ Una replies, with a deep, sorrowful sigh, ‘that these deaths might be fifteen years apart, but from where I’m standing there are far too many coincidences for my liking.’
For a few seconds, no one speaks.
Pip is the one who breaks the silence. ’Una, is this enough to persuade the police to reopen the case?’
‘I don’t know,’ Una replies. ‘They’re gonna need something fairly concrete to persuade them,’ she says, her focus on some faraway thought as she runs a hand along her jawline.
‘Please, Una—’ Pip begins to plead, but she doesn’t get to finish her sentence, because all at once Una is striding out towards the back garden, mobile phone in hand.
‘Give me a bit of space, girls,’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘I need to make that call.’
7. BRAMBLE
1977, Two Cross Farm
By the time the child arrived at Two Cross Farm on a cold afternoon in darkest February, our number had swelled to sixteen, just under half of the desired thirty-three sisters laid out
in our manifesto. Seed brought the number up to seventeen.
In less than six months, Fern had gathered a community workforce of two cooks, two gardeners, three housekeepers, two on building and decorating, two running the art studio, one physiotherapist, one yoga teacher, one treasurer – me – and in Kathy, an experienced doctor.
Not only was Kathy a GP, she was also a mother of three, and so that afternoon, when Fern summoned the rest of us to join them to meet the long-awaited infant, I assumed it was to tell us that Kathy would take a lead role in caring for the child. As Susan, Regine and I cautiously entered the bedroom, we found the room lit only by candlelight, and Fern sitting at the edge of her bed, staring intently at the baby cradled in Kathy’s arms.
‘How was your journey?’ Regine asked, still, I think, smarting at Kathy’s having been chosen over her to accompany Fern. On more than one occasion in recent weeks, Regine had tried to engage me in gossip about the possible paternity of the child, but I wouldn’t bite, and I was certain she knew as little as the rest of us. We Founding Sisters knew who the mother was, but of the father we knew nothing whatsoever.
Fern and Kathy were shadow-eyed with exhaustion, that much we all could see, even in the low candlelight of the room. The run-up to this point had not been without its tests, but now the child was here, and Fern’s relief was writ large.
‘The journey was what it was,’ she replied, with a long at-peace sigh, ‘but now the struggle is over.’
Kathy shifted on the edge of the bed, silently rearranging the baby in her arms. I wondered what was going on inside her head – whether the child’s presence resurrected memories of her own children, the three she’d left behind.
‘Meet our sixth Founding Sister,’ Fern whispered in a low voice, indicating for us to find seats where we could. ‘Her name is Seed, and she’s travelled a hard path to get here.’
In turn, we each laid a hand on the child, and inwardly I marvelled at the soft crown of her head, at the perfect innocence of her. She was mesmerising, and for long minutes we sat there, all five of us simply gazing on this sixth member of our group, the child we would raise as a sister. I felt as though I was witnessing some historic event, a world-altering moment which would change all of our lives forever. Beyond the bedroom a door banged shut, and at the noise the baby arched her back, stiffening as though in pain, her face creasing into a red grimace.
‘May I?’ I asked, reaching out to take the small bundle from Kathy. I held her against me in the same way she had, supporting the child’s head in my palm, feeling the light rise and fall of her breath against my body as she struggled weakly. Gradually, the little one’s face relaxed, and her body eased into a contented dense weight, and I looked at the others to share in my joy.
‘Oh, Fern,’ young Susan whispered, hooking her little finger under the child’s curled hand. She cast about the room in awe. ‘Don’t you all just adore her? She couldn’t be more perfect.’
There was a strange pause, as Kathy’s eyes briefly flew to Fern’s, before returning to the child. Discreetly, she wiped away a tear, smiling now and patting Fern’s leg reassuringly. ‘You’re right, Susan,’ Kathy agreed. ‘She’s beautiful.’
It was a harshly cold night, but warm in Fern’s musky den of a bedroom, and the body temperature of the baby in my embrace felt so much like my own that for a moment I wondered if she and I had fused to become one. I was gripped by a sudden, irrational fear that I’d soon have to give her up, and when I looked up to see Fern watching so intently I wondered what it could mean. As our eyes met, and she nodded very slightly, the whole room, and everyone in it, seemed to drop away.
‘Bramble, you have never mothered before,’ she said. ‘This, I am guessing, is your one great regret.’
All at once I was exposed: Fern truly saw me, stripped bare, and now they all could see it. My motherlessness; my worthlessness. I had nothing to offer the community, except money.
‘And so this is my gift to you. Bramble, you will mother the child, and Kathy, you will see to her health and development. It is my vision that Seed will one day be my successor, and so, when she comes of age, I will take over her tutelage, to lead her towards the helm.’
Regine remained silent.
‘And me?’ Susan asked, her expression hopeful.
‘You and Regine will be her sisters and her friends,’ Fern replied. ‘And she will learn great things from you.’ After a pause, she indicated that I should hand Seed back to Kathy. ‘Kathy, I believe no one here has changed a baby’s diaper before. Take them to Bramble’s room to show them how it’s done, and explain to them about the child’s complications.’
‘Complications?’ Regine asked.
‘Shush,’ Fern replied, lying back against her pillow with a yawn. ‘It’s nothing of great concern,’ she murmured sleepily. ‘Kathy will explain everything, and tomorrow, when I am rested, I will answer any further questions.’
And, with that, she closed her eyes.
Regine and Susan left the room before me, and I paused to look at Kathy as she stood and redistributed the child’s weight in her arms. Earlier, I’d seen sadness in her expression, and regret. But now, as she looked up and her eyes met mine, I saw something else altogether.
It was fear.
8. CELINE
Present day
Una’s police contact is away on a day’s leave when she first tries to phone, and the long hours until the next day have been agonising for Celine and Pip. Is it possible that the truth behind Vanessa’s death is more complicated than any of them had dared to think?
This morning, with the kids getting restless back at Delilah’s place, Una had pressed some cash into Pip’s hand and persuaded the sisters to take a trip to the medieval castle at the top of the town.
‘There’s nothing you can do here,’ Una had bossed them. ‘You might as well make the most of the good weather, and give the girls a nice time. They don’t want to sit around looking at your long faces all morning, do they? Neither do I, for that matter.’
As they left for the castle, Una was already pulling on her walking boots, planning to set off along the river to see if she could get a good view of the women’s commune from the rear, to kill time while she waited for a call back from her DI pal, Dave Aston.
Now, as the sisters meander through the castle’s manicured grounds, Olive and Beebee run ahead, battling with tiny wooden swords bought in the gift shop with Auntie Una’s pocket money. Everything feels surreal to Celine: Delilah’s sudden death, her big lonely house, and now this – this resurrection of Vanessa’s tragedy.
‘I can’t believe Mum lived here all this time,’ Pip says, breaking her thoughts. ‘With no sign of a man, not recently anyway by the looks of it. Could you ever have imagined that?’
Celine shakes her head. ‘Never. Does Stefan mind you being away with the kids?’ she asks, pausing to stuff the girls’ soft toys to the bottom of her bag. Somehow she’s become the official guardian of Lady-Dog and Spider-Boo, their most treasured possessions.
‘Not at all,’ Pip replies rather too quickly, and there’s no denying the defensive tone in her voice. She must notice it herself, because she sounds more jovial when she adds, ‘He’s probably having a lovely break without us there, making a racket. Olive can be a bit full-on at times, and he finds it really hard to concentrate at work if she’s woken us in the night.’
‘So, he’s good at helping with the girls, then?’
‘Huh?’
‘He gets up and deals with Olive in the night?’
‘Oh, well, no, I do that. But, you know, it still takes its toll on him.’
If Celine is truthful with herself, she’ll admit she’s never taken to Stefan, but she knows she would sound like a cow if she were to voice her reservations. He’s too nice, too charming and attentive by far. But how could she ever say that aloud, when their other sister almost certainly died at the hands of a partner who was at the opposite end of the charm spectrum, who wasn’t nice at al
l? ‘Well, you know what they say,’ she says instead. ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’
Pip makes a little scoffing sound, and they drop the subject. ‘Did you sleep much last night?’ she asks Celine as they pass through the apple arches, the branches almost in full flower.
‘Barely a wink,’ Celine admits. ‘You?’
‘I kept drifting off, but then my mind would conjure up that dead woman they’ve just found, and I’d imagine her lying there on the pontoon by the river at the bottom of our garden. In my dream, it was night-time, and I knew she was there, but I couldn’t stop myself from running across the garden, down to the river, because somehow I had to check the riverside to be sure she hadn’t moved.’ She puffs air through pursed lips, and when she speaks again her voice trembles. ‘Every time I reached the decking and looked down at her face—’
‘You saw Vanessa.’ Celine finishes her sentence, knowing exactly what Pip saw, because she’s seen it too, played it over and over again in her mind’s eye. Just as she had fifteen years ago, when Vanessa was found dead.
Pip halts on the path and grasps Celine’s wrist. ‘We’re not being hysterical, are we? I mean, after all this time, it is completely mad to think the two deaths are connected – Una has said as much – but, I mean, the details are just too close, aren’t they? And, God, those tattoos. They sound identical – what are the chances of that? I always said Ness was the last person you’d expect to get a tattoo, but no one took me seriously. What if someone made her have them, Celine? You hear of it, don’t you, killers leaving their mark on a body, a signature of sorts. What if that’s what those tattoos are?’
‘It’s very hard to accurately tattoo someone against their will, Pip,’ Celine says, recalling the scorching pain of the tiny gavel she’d had inked on her ankle in a moment of post-exam madness ten years back. ‘And the police would have said if the tattoos had been done post – you know, after death.’ A wave of panic rushes over her, to hear herself talking so reasonably about something so dreadful. Why does she always have to be the calm one? She didn’t ask for the job. Right now, what she really feels like doing is crumpling into a ball and screaming until her lungs give out.
33 Women: A gripping new thriller about the power of women, and the lengths they will go to when pushed... Page 5
