Forcing a smile, she raises a hand to return a wave to Olive, who is now standing on the arm of a wooden bench at the far side of the courtyard, calling her name. The little girl has her fingers jammed into her mouth, and she’s trying to whistle in the way Auntie Ceecee can. Circling her finger and thumb between her own lips, Celine sends a piercing whistle across the courtyard, causing Olive to throw down her arms in frustration.
Pip sighs heavily beside her. ‘Do you think it could be Jem again?’ she asks. ‘Do you think he could have killed them both?’
‘Why would it be Jem?’ Celine replies, letting her irritation show. ‘Jem’s got nothing to do with this new girl.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘No one’s even seen him for fifteen years, Pip! He’s long gone! I’d like to see the bastard swing for Vanessa’s death as much as you would, but the police are never gonna listen to us if you start throwing mad ideas into the mix. The best we can hope for from this is that they get to interview those women at Two Cross Farm, and find out more about Vanessa’s last movements. We’re not looking for a serial killer, you know. We’re looking for Vanessa’s killer.’
‘What’s so mad about the idea that Jem is a serial killer? If he did murder Vanessa, he’s capable of murdering other people, isn’t he? What if that’s why he disappeared in the first place – because he’s keeping a low profile and killing other women?’
Celine takes a deep breath. ‘Why here?’ she asks, throwing an arm out, gesturing around. ‘Why target Two Cross Farm?’
‘Maybe he just hates women. There are plenty of them there,’ Pip replies, starting to walk again, sounding less certain.
‘But why here, in Arundel?’ Celine’s frustration is getting the better of her.
Pip throws up her hands, matching Celine’s tone. ‘Maybe he moved back to the area.’
There’s a two- or three-second delay while Celine takes in what Pip just said. She spins her sister round to face her. ‘What do you mean, “back”?’
Pip’s forehead crinkles. ‘Back to Sussex.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Celine says, her heart accelerating.
‘He grew up in Littlehampton,’ Pip says. ‘You know that – the papers printed it at the time. It’s only down the road from here.’
All at once, Celine remembers this small detail of Jem’s life, the name of the town he grew up in. She’d never made any connections before, because there had been none to be made. ‘Where exactly is Littlehampton?’ she asks now.
‘It’s four miles away,’ Pip replies. ‘In the direction of Brighton.’
‘Jeez, Pip. Brighton.’ Where Vanessa was found, a small voice murmurs inside her head. Is this relevant? Does this make a difference, or will it be just like all those other leads they’ve explored in the past that end up meaning absolutely nothing?
‘Yes! He’s local, Celine.’ When Celine doesn’t reply, Pip tries to call Una, but finds her phone engaged. ‘She must be speaking to her DI pal,’ she says, tapping out a text message instead. ‘Una will listen to me,’ she adds, angrily, ‘even if you won’t.’
As the possible implications of this new connection sink in, the sisters walk in silence for a while, until Olive and Beebee start to squabble around their legs and Pip diverts them with a visit to the café for hot chocolate.
‘You go on your own,’ Celine tells them, feeling in desperate need of some space. ‘I’ll make my way up to the Keep. Come and find me there when you’re done?’
‘Ollee bopped my nose,’ she hears Beebee complaining as they set off in the opposite direction.
‘Off with her head!’ Olive replies, and she darts along the path on sturdy legs, dark curls flying, a tiny wooden sword held aloft. Celine wonders if she and her sisters were ever as untroubled as those two little girls. She thinks about Vanessa’s wicked sense of humour, and it occurs to her that Olive is very like their sister; she hopes Pip can see it too, that perhaps the knowledge of it brings her some comfort.
The footbridge to the Keep is completely empty of visitors, and Celine is glad of the solitude, of the momentary quiet in which to think. She follows the stone path, leading her inside the bowels of the round tower, up sets of narrow and winding steps until she reaches the top of the fortress with its peep holes and open-air viewing gallery, where she pauses to check her phone. No update from Una yet. As Celine walks around the railed battlements she can see as far as the coast on one side, and across miles of field and country all around. Which direction is Littlehampton? Which way points to the childhood home of that monster Jem Falmer? Across the landscape, little clusters of hamlets and individual dwellings are dotted around, and after some searching she is able to calculate where the River Arun runs along to Delilah’s house, past the women’s community and beyond. Both properties are hidden from view, each entirely shielded by the dense canopy of trees and surrounding woodland. If you didn’t know better, you’d never guess they were there at all.
For a moment she allows herself to remember what really brought them here in the first place: their mother. She wonders what motivated Delilah to buy Belle France, and to live there alone. It has all the usual Delilah Murphy hallmarks – it’s big and grand, comfortable and stylish – but it’s so far removed from her previous life in Kingston, located as they were on the edge of ‘what’s happening’. There, Delilah was never without company, some man or other calling to drive her into town for a show or a meal. But at the end of her days it seems she had no one. If it hadn’t been for the mobile pharmacy making his fortnightly call to Delilah’s that morning, she might have lain there for weeks, or months, undiscovered, dead in her bed.
What a waste, Celine thinks now, not for her mother, but for the relationships Delilah might have had with her daughters, if she’d wanted them badly enough. If she’d wanted Celine and her sisters more than she’d wanted the company of men. Had the girls minded all those men at the time, traipsing through their lives? Celine thinks not; all the time Delilah had her adoring audience, Delilah was happy. Happy to stay and play mother. Had she been following some man when she’d left her teenage girls to fend for themselves all those years ago? It had always been the most likely explanation, more palatable to imagine that she was running to something rather than away from them. She’d certainly had a boyfriend back in 2010 when she’d met Celine for tea. And yet there’s no sign of anyone in her life in recent times: no clues around her home, or among the possessions they’ve raked through. Perhaps, finally, Delilah had learnt to live independently, without the constant reassurance and approval she’d seemed only to find in the company of men.
In the distance, beyond the walls of the Keep, Olive comes into view, springing through the gardens below, followed by Beebee and Pip. ‘Woo-woo!’ Olive shouts, delightedly, and Pip breaks into a run, chasing them with arms outstretched, playing the ogre. As they rush past the jasmine, tiny petals rise up in their wake, and Pip catches her children, one under each arm. She draws them close, kissing their heads in turn, dozens of little pecks, and Celine can see that she’s lost to it, entirely consumed by her love for them.
A crashing sense of hopelessness weighs down on Celine, as she watches unseen through the gap in the turret. It’s not just about being loved, is it? It’s about having someone to love. Pip has her children; she has someone to love, and even if her husband is an arse, even if he were to leave her tomorrow – or her him – she’d still have those children. How did Pip learn to love like that? For their mother, Delilah, the children had never been enough.
A lurching sob rises up in Celine’s chest, and she grinds her teeth against it, forcing it back down. She shouldn’t be here, opening up the past like this. It makes her weak. They need to get on with the funeral, and with the task of clearing the house and tying up the legal details of Delilah’s will. What the hell are they thinking, dragging up the horror of Vanessa’s death all over again? The more she thinks about it, the more certain she is that Una’s DI pal is going to say t
hese connections are too tenuous to link the deaths – far too many years apart. The officer who’d visited yesterday said Robyn Siegle’s injuries weren’t immediately evident, that they’d need a post-mortem to determine how she’d died. Vanessa’s injuries were entirely different, and they couldn’t have been more evident. She was beaten and strangled in a frenzied attack. Surely that disparity alone is enough to make the police dismiss whatever it is Una is putting to them, tell them to drop it, get over it and get on with their lives. Embarrassment creeps through Celine’s nerves, a feeling of deep shame that she’s let her usual guardedness slip. They’ve got themselves carried away with this insane idea about finding Vanessa’s killer – a fantasy at best – and Celine needs to stop it before they go any further.
Turning to make her way down, she resolves to pack her bags as soon as they arrive back at the house, for Pip’s sake as much as her own. First thing tomorrow morning, she’ll return to her life and work in Bournemouth, and try to forget all about this place. Forget all about Vanessa and Jem Falmer and that poor dead stranger left at the riverside.
She almost doesn’t hear her mobile phone ringing as a party of foreign students passes her on the narrow stairwell, and when she manages to retrieve the handset from her pocket it’s Una’s name displayed on the screen.
‘Una? Hello? Listen, I’ve been thinking—’
‘Hang on a sec, Celine.’ There’s a moment’s hesitation on the other end of the line, of footsteps on dry earth and the distant sound of flowing water. Celine imagines Una sitting on the bench beyond the garden of Belle France, her steady dark eyes gazing out over the river.
When Una at last speaks, her tone is buoyant. ‘Celine, you know I said we were gonna need something more concrete to link the two cases?’
‘Ye-es,’ Celine replies cautiously, her focus locked on Pip and the girls making their way through the courtyard below.
‘Well,’ Una says, ‘I think I’ve found it.’
9. BRAMBLE
1979, Two Cross Farm
‘She doesn’t meet any of the criteria, Fern,’ Kathy complained. ‘We want another cook, or someone with carpentry skills. Another pair of hands in the laundry room. Not a tattooist!’
The Founding Sisters were sitting around Fern’s desk, in her newly refurbished office, preparing to interview a prospective resident. The first-floor window overlooked the front drive, from where Fern could see anyone who came to the gate as she worked, and she could get the peace she needed for the running of this place. Right now, outside was a landscape of white, snow having fallen heavily in the night, and little Seed was balanced on my knee, quietly gazing out through the window, mesmerised by the strangeness of the scene.
‘I like the look of her resumé,’ Fern said, pushing Sandy’s letter of application towards us where we sat on the other side of her desk. ‘She won’t be employed as a tattooist, Kathy, that’s just an additional skill. Look – she’s travelled extensively, worked in bars, on plantations – picking potatoes, scrubbing toilets, washing dishes. She’s a grafter. That’s what we need at Two Cross Farm.’
Sandy, the young woman in question, was currently waiting to be interviewed in the front reception room, having trudged two miles from the train station in the snow with her life’s belongings strapped to her back.
Kathy allowed her eyes to flit over the letter, before nudging it away with a short-clipped fingernail. ‘I still think someone with a skilled trade would be more use to us.’
‘You’re forgetting dynamics, Kathy,’ Fern replied persuasively. ‘We always talked about achieving the right balance of skill and temperament, of age and experience, and newness. This girl, Sandy – she’s young, but she’s seen a bit of the world, and she’s clearly a team player. She doesn’t seem to have any family to speak of, so she’s alone. And she does have a trade, whether you approve of it or not.’
‘I don’t not approve of it,’ Kathy argued. ‘I just really don’t see the use for it here.’
Fern spread her hands. ‘Well, as ever, it’ll come down to the vote – fifty per cent or more of us in favour and she stays; less and she goes. Tell the others we’re ready, and let’s get her in. Susan?’
Susan left the room and by the time she returned with Sandy, the prospective new sister, we had arranged ourselves in a cross-legged circle on the Indian rug at the centre of the room. A space had been left for Susan to complete the circle beside Fern, and with a silent gesture Sandy was invited to sit on the cushion in the middle. Little Seed sat nestled in the hollow of my lap, quietly plaiting a friendship bracelet, her demeanour and dexterity already advanced for her years.
‘You’ll be nice and quiet and listen to the new lady?’ I whispered in her ear.
‘Woman,’ Fern reminded me in a low voice, having overheard. ‘We say “woman” here, Bramble.’
I felt suitably chastened; it wasn’t the first time I’d made the mistake. Women are warriors, Fern was always telling the group. Ladies are lily-livered. ‘Be nice and quiet for the new woman, OK?’ I told Seed.
The little girl turned her face up towards mine and nodded earnestly, placing a small finger to her pursed lips, and Fern smiled at me approvingly, before turning the full light of her attention on our new visitor, now sitting at the centre of the circle, facing Fern. Sandy really was young, and she wore a long paisley dress with gathered cuffs, her tangled hair pinned high on her head. But she was no innocent; she had a hungry look, a lean-nosed, deprived aura.
‘Hello, Sandy,’ Fern said. She was holding a soft ball now, which she rotated between the tips of her index fingers in a rhythmic motion. ‘Thank you for travelling to us through the snow. I think your trip was cold, no?’ She smiled, nodding towards Sandy’s ruddy bare feet, and gently threw the ball into the young woman’s waiting hands.
‘It was fackin’ freezing,’ she said, her estuary accent hard and surprisingly out of kilter with her beatnik appearance.
The room burst into laughter, and Sandy threw the ball to Susan, shifting slightly to face her.
‘How old are you?’ Susan asked, clearly pleased at the prospect of someone close to her own age joining us.
Sandy caught the ball. ‘Nineteen, nearly twenty.’ She threw the ball to Regine.
‘Where were you before this?’
‘Indonesia.’ To me, and another shift on the cushion.
‘Are you a runaway?’ I asked, for many of the younger women were.
Sandy pulled a face, as though the question was ridiculous, but then she seemed to think better of it, and I believed the answer she gave was the truth. ‘I left home when I was fourteen. My family, well, they’re not good people. My mum died the year before, and my dad and brothers, they all thought I’d join the family business soon as I left school, but I didn’t want a bar of it. So I made my own way.’
‘Was your father violent?’ Regine asked.
She nodded, and passed the ball to Kathy.
‘What can you offer us, Sandy?’ Kathy asked, pushing her spectacles up her nose in her customary way. ‘What skills do you bring?’
‘I’m strong. Artistic. And I ain’t scared of muckin’ in and makin’ friends.’
Before Sandy could rid herself of the ball again, Kathy held up a hand. ‘Yes. That’s very good, but I asked you what skills you have. Specifically.’
The girl looked around the circle, and with her large heavy-lashed eyes she reminded me in some strange way of a cow at the boundary of a field, assessing approaching humans for signs of danger. She rolled up her sleeves and pulled back her skirts to reveal limbs so entirely tattooed that, apart from her hands and feet, not an inch of skin was visible. She threw the ball to me.
‘I – I—’ I stuttered, because truly, I was completely stumped at the sight of her. Only on sailors and ex-cons had I ever seen such comprehensive inking, and even then only in photographs. ‘I wonder how this might benefit the group?’ I asked, returning the ball to her.
‘I’ve brought my kit with me
,’ she replied, one corner of her mouth turning upwards. ‘You know the ancient Egyptians used to tattoo their high priestesses, to signify their importance? They’ve found them – mummified – from thousands of years ago. Tattoos mean all kinds of things. They can mean a journey, or a challenge, or achievement, or love. They can mean belonging too, membership of a special group.’ She hesitated a moment, checking she still had our full attention. ‘How would you describe this place? Is it a brainwashing cult, like people say? Or is it a safe place for women?’ When no one answered, she shifted and threw the ball to Fern.
Fern was radiating her best self, her happiest, most fulfilled self, because she knew she’d chosen well, and the girl was saying everything she wanted to hear. ‘It’s the latter. And I couldn’t have put it better myself. Sandy, tell me, how do you think your skills could enhance this community and our atmosphere of belonging?’
Sandy caught the ball. ‘Well, I’ll work at anything you set me to, I said that, didn’t I? Cooking, cleaning, gardening – whatever wants doing.’
Fern nods.
‘Aaa-nd,’ Sandy says, drawing her skirts back down to cover her legs, ‘If you wanted, I could create a tattoo just for you. For the group. To be gifted to only the most dedicated women; to be earned, if you like?’
‘Like a Brownie badge?’ Susan said, clamping a hand to her mouth when she realised she wasn’t in possession of the ball. Swiftly, Sandy threw it to her.
‘Ball!’ Seed exclaimed as Susan caught it with a surprised squeal.
I wrapped my arms across her small warm body, and kissed her on the head. ‘That’s right,’ I whispered, and she fell to her plaiting work again.
‘What kind of tattoo?’ Susan asked, sparkle-eyed as she returned the ball to Sandy.
‘I dunno – you could all help to design it, couldn’t you?’
33 Women: A gripping new thriller about the power of women, and the lengths they will go to when pushed... Page 6
