33 Women: A gripping new thriller about the power of women, and the lengths they will go to when pushed...

by Isabel Ashdown

  What Una doesn’t say is that Dave Aston’s been trying to obtain Susan’s file for days now, it having gone missing in the newly archived Sussex records.

  Adam Siegle’s face is set in a mask of shocked realisation. ‘She was found dead by the water,’ he murmurs. ‘Just like Robyn.’

  Celine looks at Una, recognising the suppressed urgency in her expression. ‘So, now we have the strongest of links between Susan and Robyn,’ she says, calmly. ‘They were mother and daughter.’

  31. BRAMBLE

  1995, Two Cross Farm

  Women were screaming.

  It was what woke me in the dead of night, rousing me with the distant and unfettered pitch of it, and I felt afraid for the trouble ahead. As I fumbled for the bedside lamp, the door to my room creaked open and young Seed’s ashen face told me all I needed to know.

  ‘Will you come?’ she asked, her voice low and mournful. ‘Will you come now, Bramble?’

  All along the landing and stairwell above us, women were opening bedroom doors, leaning out with anxious faces, asking what the noise was all about. Has the time come? Should we be worried? Should we prepare to celebrate?Seed ignored them, forging ahead, pausing only to glance back at me with urgency.

  ‘Get back to your rooms,’ I called up as I shuffled by, my legs aching from lack of rest. ‘Go to sleep, all of you. If you’re needed, we’ll ask for you – otherwise, we’ll see you at morning call.’

  They nodded solemnly, every one, and disappeared behind their bedroom doors, knowing better than to get into an argument at this time of night. As we left the dorms behind, I realised the screaming had ceased, and in my murky waking state I wondered if I’d really heard it at all. I dared to hope that perhaps it had been just voices from the hallway, altered in my dreams, though Seed’s grave manner suggested otherwise.

  ‘Where is she?’ I asked, reaching out to tug at a sleeve to slow her down.

  Seed stopped at the creaky threshold to the dining room and turned to face me. Her head was wrapped in an indigo turban, and she was dressed in the same sky-blue smock I’d seen her wearing earlier, making me wonder if she’d been to bed at all. ‘Fern thought she’d be best in the wood store, away from the other women. She made up a bed there.’

  ‘In the wood store? For the love of – why? Isn’t it freezing out there?’

  Seed shook her head and a large tear plopped to her chest, leaving a single dark stain.

  In the darkness, we passed the great oak dining table and reached the French doors at the back of the house, where I could make out lamplight from the shed at the far end, flooding through its small windows, illuminating the frosted pathway.

  ‘Fern said it would be less disruptive. The noise, you know?’ Even as she said this, Seed’s doubt was written clear on her young face, her breath, even inside the house, making white mist as it left her mouth. ‘She thought it would be best to keep things discreet.’

  I gestured outside, towards the lights at the top of the garden, my nerves fraying. ‘What stage is she at?’

  But Seed only shook her head miserably and pushed open the glass door, before sliding her elegant hands deep into her tunic pockets, indicating with the slightest movement of her chin for me to follow her.

  Outside all was still, not a breeze in the air, and but for those lit-up windows you’d have been forgiven for thinking the entire world was asleep. I glanced back at the house, where a few curtains were twitched back, and I knew unseen eyes were watching for news, for action, for something. On the far side of the garden there was a flash of pale movement swooping close to the sails of the little windmill as our resident barn owl took flight across the lawns and out towards the river beyond, unaware of the drama playing out just yards away. I wondered, not for the first time, how free it might feel to be an unthinking creature, a harmless beast or bird, concerned only with the next meal, with the changing of the seasons.

  Seed, several paces ahead of me, opened the door to the wood store, and then I heard it again, that keening, piercing cry, and I knew what kind of cry it was, for it could be only one kind. It was not the joy of new life but a wail of grief, and it belonged to Kathy. I rushed through the entrance, brushing Seed aside in my need to know, instantly regretting my haste. Because yes, there was Kathy, kneeling on the floor beside a ground-level bed, no more than a mattress really, with Fern sitting upright at the other end in a faded orange canvas chair, her silver-streaked hair braided to one side. Regine, with her matching grey plait, a mess of tears, huddled, knees up, in the shadows of the woodpile. At the centre of them, curled like a foetus on her makeshift bed, was that darling girl. It occurred to me that the scene resembled some terrible, grotesque re-enactment of the Holy Nativity, and even before I allowed my eyes to fully rest on her I knew she had to be dead. It was the blood. There was so very much of it; so much that the mattress was almost entirely soaked, the poor girl’s legs crimson with the stuff. Even her hair was tinged pink, God help us.

  Without thinking, I made the sign of the cross, knowing even before my hand dropped to my side that it was a mistake. In a heartbeat, Fern leapt out of her seat, and she roared with fury, dismissing me with the whip-sharp motion of her arm. ‘This is no time for God!’

  I staggered a little, startled by her outrage, shocked by it all. It had been just a small gesture, a thoughtless, unconscious action, hard-wired from childhood, but an action so at odds with the agnostic philosophy of our community that it could only inflame our custodian’s wrath.

  ‘I’m sorry, Fern,’ I started to say, and all I could think was: She was two weeks overdue. She was two weeks overdue, and we did nothing!

  ‘We’ve lost one of our number, Bramble. Your God’s no use to her now! Do you know what this could mean? For me? For you? For all of these women?’

  I glanced around the lamplit space again, breathing in the hot metallic anguish of the room, tinged as it was with death and wood dust and damp and tears. I didn’t know what to do with myself, and when I glanced over at Seed it was clear she was lost too; she’d backed herself against the cold wooden walls, a hand to her mouth, her eyes not on that poor husk of our sister but on Kathy. Dr Kathy who hadn’t looked up once since I got here, who was still just kneeling there, huddled over herself, as though the pain of loss had cut her spine like a string.

  ‘Kathy,’ I said, reaching out to touch her hair lightly with the tips of my fingers.

  ‘I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save either of them—’

  She looked up then, raising first her face and then her shoulders, peeling slowly back to reveal that she was, in fact, huddled over a dark, wet bundle. Suddenly hopeful, she offered it up to me, like a gift, as though I alone held all the answers, but I couldn’t take it, because that would have been just too much to bear. As Kathy’s arms began to shake under the dense weight of it, and the blanket flopped away, I saw it really was a child; fully formed, blood-red, unmoving.

  ‘What will we tell the women?’ I whispered.

  ‘We’ll tell them Susan missed her family,’ Fern replied coolly. ‘We’ll tell them she took the baby back home.’

  So when the cries started up again, it took long moments before any of us truly believed what we were hearing. The cries were not from Kathy this time, but from the baby in her arms.

  32. CELINE

  Present day

  DI Dave Aston arrives after lunch, on his way from meeting Adam Siegle at his hotel nearby.

  It seems yesterday’s revelation about Susan Green has come as a great shock to Dave, and he spends the first few minutes with them berating himself and the wider police organisation for failing to make the connection themselves.

  ‘I’m sorry, Una, I know I said you’re off the case, but to be frank I could do with a friendly ear right now. Do you mind if I burden you – pick your brains a bit?’

  Una sets to making him a coffee as he joins Celine at the kitchen table.

  ‘If we’d managed to get our hands on Susan Green’
s paperwork earlier, perhaps some of this balls-up could have been prevented,’ he says. ‘No offence, Una, but I can’t believe it took two civilians to spot the link between Susan Green and Robyn. Mother and daughter? I can’t believe it.’

  Celine indicates for them to move through to the living room, where they can spread the files out on the coffee table between them.

  ‘So, the Susan Green file finally turned up, then?’ Una remarks. ‘What does it say?’

  Dave hands her the report, summarising as she scans the detail. ‘The 1995 post-mortem revealed that indeed Susan Green had given birth only hours before death, and that, although it wasn’t mentioned in the news report, there was clear evidence of birth trauma. She had certainly lost enough blood to kill her, and, while suicide was briefly considered as a viable cause, particularly with the fact of her having abandoned her baby earlier that evening, the coroner’s ruling was misadventure.’

  ‘Not suicide?’ Celine asks.

  Dave shakes his head. ‘My old neighbour must have misremembered the detail. That news article does hint that she’d taken her own life, but, when you re-read it, it stops just short of saying so.’

  ‘Poor girl.’ Una breathes out. ‘So, it looks like a tragic, but clear, case of death in childbirth?’

  He nods sadly. ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘You know, having that paperwork wouldn’t have helped us link Susan and Robyn any sooner, Dave. When an adopted baby is placed with a new family,’ Celine says, ‘they don’t give out personal details, so you wouldn’t have found a connection to Robyn in that file. I think we just got lucky. And I think Robyn got lucky too, piecing together local news articles from around the time she was abandoned – and going one step further in guessing that Susan had been a resident at Two Cross Farm. It makes sense, when you consider the proximity to the place and how many years Susan had been missing beforehand.’

  Dave pulls a face that suggests she’s being generous. ‘Huh, well, Robyn – and you two – certainly gave my old colleagues a run for their money in the deduction stakes. And me, for that matter.’

  ‘But God knows how she got Seed to agree to talk about it,’ Una says. ‘Seed certainly wasn’t so keen to volunteer any information about Susan to us. Tell you what I’d like to know: who Robyn’s father might be, bearing in mind that her mother had been living in an all-women community for nearly twenty years prior to giving birth.’

  Dave writes the word ‘FATHER?’ in his notebook and circles it. He looks up as Olive and Beebee appear, and he gives them a small wave as they pass through the patio doors. ‘Cute kids,’ he remarks, before flipping open a notebook just like Una’s and scowling at its pages. ‘Is your sister still here?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, she’s in town meeting someone for lunch,’ Una says.

  ‘I didn’t realise she was meeting someone,’ Celine says, wondering why Pip hadn’t mentioned it to her.

  ‘OK,’ Dave says, breaking her train of thought, ‘let’s summarise. We now have two women discovered dead in Arundel, twenty-five years apart, and one of them turns out to be the abandoned daughter of the other. I think we can safely say this is our biggest breakthrough to date.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Una says.

  ‘We also now understand why Robyn was staying at Two Cross Farm – in order to find out more about said birth mother.’

  Celine is desperate to mention Vanessa, for fear that this new development will overshadow her case, her murder, but she holds back, waiting for the right moment.

  ‘I’m wondering,’ Dave says, ‘did Robyn go into that community all gung-ho, asking questions about Susan Green – questions that someone in there didn’t want to answer?’

  ‘If she had discovered something damning about her mother’s death, there’s certainly motive for someone wanting to shut her up, isn’t there?’ Una says.

  ‘So, if you suspect motive, what now?’ Celine asks.

  ‘We’re going to have to make good on our threat and slap a search warrant on Seed and Two Cross Farm,’ Aston says. ‘The chief wanted us to avoid that at all costs, but I can’t see any other way to move this forward. Seed is hiding something, and, now that you two aren’t welcome back there, it’s time we made it official. If Seed was having some kind of relationship with Robyn, it makes her a strong potential suspect. We’ll apply for the warrant this afternoon.’

  ‘And what about Vanessa?’ Celine asks, finally unable to hold it in, unsettled by the news that the police are ramping up their approach. ‘Are you still linking her death to these two? It’s just, all this talk seems to be entirely focused on Robyn Siegle and Susan Green.’

  For a second Dave Aston doesn’t reply; she’s caught him off-guard. ‘Yes, of course we’re still looking at Vanessa’s case, Celine. It’s just that all this latest information happens to be directly related to the other two women. When we carry out that house search we will absolutely be looking for evidence in connection with Vanessa’s death – but, that said, I don’t want to raise your hopes too high. Fifteen years is a long time – long enough to dispose of incriminating evidence.’

  ‘But what about that note from Jem Falmer? If he’s back in the area, alive and kicking, surely he has to be your prime suspect? Shouldn’t you be looking at ways he might be linked to those two women too? What if you’re diverting all your attention on to Seed and the commune, when you should be rounding him up?’

  ‘It’s not that easy, I’m afraid,’ Dave replies. ‘Yes, the handwriting expert confirmed the note was written by Falmer, but no one – I mean no one – has seen him. His family deny any contact from him, as do his old work colleagues, and he has no real friends to speak of. I’ve had one of my officers checking CCTV cameras all around Arundel for that day the note was left, on the off-chance that he passed through, but with no hits. Until we work out where he is, we can’t move forward. We’ve got nothing.’

  ‘But do you think he could be responsible for killing Robyn?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, I think it’s possible,’ Dave replies, firmly. ‘Although for what motive is another matter.’

  Celine’s attention is drawn to the words on Dave’s notebook, and she is struck by a sudden thought. ‘What if – OK, this might sound crazy – but Jem Falmer would’ve been twenty when Robyn was born. What if Jem is Robyn’s father? What if Jem is connected to every one of those three dead women?’

  Una and Dave exchange a puzzled look, then their expressions shift: maybe it’s not such a crazy idea after all.

  ‘Wow, that is a thought,’ Dave replies. ‘That threatening note he left you shows that he’s clearly still got an axe to grind, as well as suggesting he could have been in the area around the time of Robyn’s death.’ He pauses, staring at his notepad. ‘OK. I’ll get a few more officers on to the search for him as a key suspect. But we must be clear: he’s not the only suspect, and for now we’re going to follow up the strong leads we do have inside Two Cross Farm.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave,’ Una says, taking his empty cup and standing.

  ‘I want to reassure you, Celine, the entire force is taking this seriously,’ Dave says. ‘I’ll be taking my team down to Two Cross Farm tomorrow afternoon, with a warrant, and we’ll be making a thorough search to gather as many answers as we possibly can. And, if it’s appropriate, we’ll make arrests. You have my word.’

  While Dave sees himself out, Celine slumps on to the sofa, a fresh wave of concern washing over her. ‘What if that search warrant jeopardises everything, Una?’ she asks.

  ‘How?’

  ‘You saw what Seed was like. She hates the police; she hates men. And, apart from anything else, I can’t help feeling it’s wrong to go storming in there, when they’ve managed to protect their female-only status for all these years. If feels like an abuse of their privacy.’

  ‘But Seed is refusing to co-operate, Celine. The police are running out of options.’

  ‘OK, but how many officers does Aston plan to take in there with him? And how many of them wil
l be women? Very few, probably. Those women may be the only ones who know exactly how Jem Falmer is involved. All this is going to do is wind them up, make them join shoulders and clamp their mouths tighter shut.’

  ‘What else do you suggest?’ Una asks. ‘The police tried the softly-softly approach, sending us in, and that didn’t work.’

  ‘Didn’t it? It was all going swimmingly until the bloody press turned up! If the police had managed their information better, that would never have happened. Storming in there is not the way to get them talking, Una, and I think you can see that as much as I can. Shit. I know Falmer is behind Vanessa’s death, I just don’t know how, and I’m really worried Aston is going to screw this up for us. For Vanessa. If only we could get in there again, wipe the slate clean. The answers are in there, I’m certain; just not in all the obvious places.’

  ‘Well, we had our chance,’ Una says with a sigh. ‘And now it’s down to the police.’

  ‘I could do it.’ Pip is standing in the doorway, back from town. She looks thin, vulnerable.

  ‘What?’ Celine asks.

  ‘I could go into Two Cross Farm – I could say I need their help. They don’t know me; they don’t know we’re connected in any way.’

  Una is shaking her head.

  ‘Look at me!’ Pip insists, the idea clearly gaining traction in her mind. ‘My face is all messed up – how can they turn me away? I’m exactly the kind of woman who’d go to them for help. I’ll tell them my husband hits me, that I’ve got nowhere to stay. I’ll throw myself at that bloody Seed’s feet if I have to, beg for sanctuary.’

  ‘No, Pip,’ Celine protests. ‘The answer’s no, and that’s an end to it.’

  A darkness crosses Pip’s face, and she shakes her head angrily, heading towards the garden where the girls are playing. ‘When are you going to stop treating me like a child, Celine? You can’t keep withholding information from me like you have been – and you can’t tell me what to do any more. I care as much about what happened to Vanessa as you two!’