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

by Isabel Ashdown

  ‘Leave the police work to Dave Aston,’ Una calls after her, but already Pip is storming off across the lawn towards the girls, fists clenched as she tries to hold in her rage.

  ‘She’ll calm down soon enough,’ Celine says, getting to her feet and pulling on a jacket with a weary sigh. ‘We’re out of food,’ she says. ‘Wanna come for a trip to Sainsbury’s?’

  Una picks up the car keys and they set off, pausing only to call farewell to a stony-faced Pip, who is sitting on the low wall with Olive at the end of the garden.

  In the car on the way home from the supermarket, Dave Aston calls Una’s mobile.

  Celine answers on the second ring and flips it on to speakerphone.

  ‘Blimey, Dave,’ Una smiles, ‘can’t stay away from me for more than five minutes, can you? I’m driving, so make it quick – Celine’s with me.’

  ‘I’ve just come from interviewing your gardener,’ Dave says, urgency in his voice. ‘There’s a new development. Can you pull over?’

  ‘We’re almost home,’ Una replies, continuing along the main road. ‘Keep talking.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Celine interrupts. ‘I thought one of your officers had already spoken to Harry?’

  Dave grunts. ‘Don’t ask. There’s a gastric bug doing the rounds at the station – anyway, the long and the short of it is, that particular interview was missed. I’ve just been with him now. He was very useful as it turns out. Did you know he’d been out to lunch with your sister Pip earlier today?’

  Celine turns to Una, scowling hard when she realises she has known all along. They now bump along the unmade track towards Belle France, slowing down as they pass the iron security gates to Two Cross Farm.

  ‘Apparently so,’ Una says. ‘Now, are you going to spit out what this new development is, Dave?’

  ‘It’s pretty significant,’ he replies. ‘Significant enough for me to have kept Harry in for further questioning.’

  ‘What?’ Una barks. ‘On what basis?’

  ‘Well, when I realised he hadn’t been questioned, I traced his surname via a Google search of freelance gardeners in the area. It’s an unusual surname – it certainly rang some bells – and when I did the background check it threw up something alarming.’

  ‘What?’ Celine demands as Una draws to a halt on their driveway.

  ‘His name is Harry Glass, and we’re holding him at Littlehampton station right now, for questioning in connection with all three deaths.’

  ‘Jeez,’ Una wheezes, her hand working over her hair.

  Celine releases her seatbelt and leans in to speak. ‘Dave, that name sounds familiar—’

  ‘Uh-huh. You remember the news article about the discovery of Susan Green’s body in 1995?’ Dave continues. ‘The young man who found her was a lake attendant at the time, a twenty-year-old local by the name of Harry Glass. Turns out your gardener was the fella who found Susan’s body, twenty-five years ago.’

  Harry the gardener? The shy, evasive, softly spoken fellow they’ve watched mowing Delilah’s lawn this past fortnight. Harry the gardener, who, it seems, has also been making moves on her sister.

  ‘Is he under arrest?’ Una asks.

  ‘Not yet,’ Dave replies. ‘But I’ve got a feeling it’s only a matter of time. He’s never moved away from this area, he tells us. And he’s been doing your mother’s garden ever since she bought the place seventeen years ago.’

  Celine sucks in a long breath, anchoring her eyes on the front door of their house as the cogs of her mind whirr double-time. ‘He’d have been Mum’s gardener when Vanessa was in the area? In 2004?’

  Una blinks at her, the implications of this new information gaining momentum.

  ‘That’s correct,’ Aston agrees. ‘And guess what? Our Harry Glass attended Littlehampton school with a certain Jem Falmer. And he doesn’t seem to have an alibi for the night Robyn died.’

  33. BRAMBLE

  Present day, Two Cross Farm

  Seed refuses to come downstairs.

  Over the past forty-eight hours, she’s barely left her office, instead keeping vigil in the window overlooking the quiet front gate, anticipating the threatened police visit, which so far hasn’t arrived. Regine and I bring her trays of food and try to talk her down, but she’s having none of it and will barely turn away from her view to speak with us. The room smells closed-in and stale, and I swear she hasn’t washed in days.

  ‘Honey, Fern’s been asking for you,’ Regine says when we go up to check on her after lunch. Her tray sits on the edge of her desk, food uneaten, water untouched.

  ‘No, she hasn’t,’ Seed replies, without hesitation, her back to us. ‘Fern barely remembers my name these days – or anyone’s, for that matter.’

  Regine gives me a resigned sidelong look, hugging thin arms about her stooped frame. ‘OK, you got me. But I know she’d like to see you. She’s gotten worse, honey. I don’t think she’s too long for this world.’ It’s not a lie; Fern’s strength is declining rapidly.

  At this, Seed turns to look over one shoulder, and in the gaunt lines of her cheeks it’s suddenly horribly clear just how much weight she’s lost in the past few weeks.

  ‘What Regine says is true,’ I tell her. ‘Fern’s fading quickly. She loves you very much, Seed, and you might want to pay her a visit before—’

  ‘Before what?’ Seed spits, spinning her chair to face us. ‘Before she dies? I’ve been up here thinking about Fern these past few days, about the way she prepared me for this role, trained me for it, handed me the reins at thirty-three – about the way I had no choice in it. Does that sound like love?’

  ‘But you were destined to be our custodian, Seed, even before you were born,’ Regine says gently, taking a step towards her, raising her hands in defence when Seed’s voice lifts to the rafters.

  ‘Destiny has nothing to do with it! It’s always about Fern, isn’t it? Fern gets the casting vote in all matters! I didn’t ask for this role – I didn’t ask for this,’ she says, gesturing towards the damaged side of her face, her hands trailing down her body. ‘And I certainly didn’t ask to be born into this damned house of deceit!’

  I start physically at her outburst, for it is so out of character, so wounding, and I find myself reaching towards Regine for support. Regine’s stiff fingers grasp mine.

  ‘You’re upset, Seed – it’s natural,’ I start to say, but she rounds on me savagely and my words fall away.

  ‘Of course I’m upset!’ she bellows, lunging to sweep her arm across the surface of the desk, sending pens and notebooks across the floorboards. ‘Everything is falling apart, Bramble! Everything. Ever since—’ She stares at me, but her words fail her.

  I merely look on, open-mouthed.

  ‘Ever since,’ she continues, lowering her voice to an urgent whisper, her words spilling out, unchecked. ‘Ever since the laundry room. And it’s not just that; I can’t get Susan out of my head either. Susan, and the baby. What we did was so wrong, getting rid of that tiny creature, disposing of her, like she was nothing at all – and that’s all down to Fern! That was under her instruction, under her orders! You say Fern loves me – what kind of love is that?’ Seed is ranting now, and neither Regine nor I seem to have the ability to interrupt her, to douse her flames. ‘None of us wanted to give up that child,’ she continues, tears now flowing freely, ‘especially after what happened to Susan. And we tried to persuade Fern to change her mind, but you remember, don’t you? She wouldn’t have it. She wouldn’t allow it …’ Seed’s voice trails now, growing softer. ‘Fern wrote the Code. Fern decided how and when to follow it. And Fern had the power to overrule a democratic vote. We were supposed to be for women, not against them. Tell me, how does it serve women to wrench them from their children, and keep them apart?’

  With unfading clarity, I recall Fern’s words from that night all those years ago. If Susan and this child are found on our property, we are all complicit. Kathy more than any one of us – Susan died under her care. To not act now w
ould blow apart everything we have striven for over the past twenty years. It would put women out on the street; it would break up our family. Just think about it for a moment or two; ask yourself, even if you evaded arrest, how would you fare out there? The child must go. My instinct at the time had told me it was wrong, but my selfish fear of losing our community had won out. I remember the stricken expression on Kathy’s face, Kathy who had begged to take Susan to a hospital a week earlier, when the baby was already overdue. Kathy, who never really got over that loss.

  Now, Regine and I have no reply. There is no answer we can give; no words we can offer in defence of our dying founder. Seed looks away, her hands protectively rearranging the scarves that cover her head, her eyelids closing slowly as though attempting to restore her inner calm. With a graceful hand motion she appears to dismiss us and returns to her window view, but, instantly, something in her demeanour shifts and she presses her palms to the glass. Regine and I step closer, both, I think, expecting to see a large police entourage waiting at the gate. But instead there is a small trio standing on the other side of the iron bars, where the rope pull is now swinging as the sound of the bell rings out across the lawns.

  ‘Who can they be?’ Regine asks.

  ‘Whoever they are,’ Seed replies calmly, her focus still firmly on the little group, ‘you’re to let them in. Let them in, Bramble, and welcome them, and tell them they may stay.’

  ‘But, you can’t—’ Regine starts to object.

  ‘You are to tell them they may stay,’ Seed repeats, coldly sounding out each syllable as she turns from the window, arresting us both with the strength of her glare. ‘Go!’ she growls when neither of us moves.

  Regine hurries ahead of me, already calling down the stairs, instructing the sisters to let the newcomers in.

  ‘Will you come down too?’ I ask when I’m halfway out of the door, feeling all at once terrified of what Seed might do next, to herself, or even others. I’ve never before seen her like this, never before feared her in this way.

  She nods slowly, and, framed against the window by a halo of dancing dust motes, her hard expression relaxes and she nods. ‘I’m fine, Bramble, really. I just need twenty minutes to take a shower, to freshen up.’

  ‘Who do you think they are?’ I ask, a last question.

  She gazes at me gently, like a mother appraising a child. ‘They’re a sign,’ she replies, simply. ‘And maybe, just maybe, they’re a second chance.’

  34. CELINE

  Present day

  After they’d finished speaking with Dave Aston in the car yesterday afternoon, Celine and Una returned to the house and found Pip and the girls, and many of their things, gone.

  Celine was at first concerned, as they’d not parted on the best of terms, but after a brief scout of the kitchen Una found Pip had left a note explaining that she’d returned home for a day or two, to take advantage of the fact that Stefan was away for a few nights on business.

  I’ve given it a lot of thought, the note read, and I’ve decided I’m going to file for divorce. I need a bit of time to sort through some paperwork at home, while he’s away.

  This was the best news Celine had heard in weeks. That, and the fact that the police seemed to have snared a real live suspect for Vanessa’s murder, something that even now she is having trouble truly believing. She keeps returning to that conversation she had with Harry Glass in the garden, feeling a chill dread when she thinks of the interest he’s shown in Pip over the past couple of weeks. When they’d seen Pip’s note, Celine had texted with an update about Harry being questioned, but Pip has yet to reply, and Celine wonders if she’s still smarting about the cross words they’d shared.

  This morning, Celine is sitting across the kitchen worktop from Una in her pyjamas, thinking about Harry Glass. ‘He certainly had me fooled,’ she says now. All night long, she’s thought of little else besides the fact that the police have linked Harry the gardener with Jem Falmer – and with the discovery of Susan Green’s body. ‘Looked like butter wouldn’t melt.’

  ‘Who, Stefan?’ Una replies, misunderstanding. ‘Pip won’t have an easy time getting him out of that house.’ She pours Celine a coffee and pushes it across the worktop. ‘He’s grown accustomed to living rent-free, and he won’t take it well.’

  Celine doesn’t bother correcting Una, as her mind is diverted back to her youngest sister. These men, she thinks – all these men taking advantage of all these women. Celine is better off on her own, making her own decisions, pulling her own strings. The single life has worked out just fine for Una, hasn’t it? Who ever said you needed a man in your life to make you whole? Delilah, that’s who.

  ‘River Terrace is legally Pip’s now, which means her husband will have a legitimate claim on half of it. I deal with cases like this all the time,’ Celine says, feeling a shudder of guilt at having left her boss in the lurch for so long. ‘Why the hell couldn’t she have sorted this out before Mum died?’

  ‘Bad timing. Stefan hadn’t knocked her down the steps in front of her children before Delilah died.’

  Celine tuts irritably. ‘That bad timing has probably cost Pip and her girls half a million pounds.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t forget she’ll have her share of the proceeds from this place too. She’ll be able to buy Stefan out if she has to, if he insists on claiming half. She’s got choices, Celine, that’s the most important thing, isn’t it? Pip isn’t trapped now. She doesn’t have to rely on him for money any more.’ Una catches the toast as it pops up. ‘You know, she’s even started talking about going back to work once Olive starts school. I think being here with you, Celine – she’s finding her strength again.’

  A pair of Beebee’s tiny shoes lie kicked off by the back door, one straight, the other upside down. Celine recalls the moment the girls came to say goodnight to her and Una the evening before last, when Beebee took Celine’s face between her dimpled toddler hands and kissed her on the nose, telling her not to let the ‘bed bubs’ bite. It’s become a nightly ritual for Celine to kiss Beebee’s Lady-Dog and Olive’s Spider-Boo goodnight too, and she’s begun to feel a ferocious wave of love towards those girls, an overwhelming desire to sweep them up; to pull them close to her and never let them go. ‘I hope you’re right,’ she murmurs.

  ‘I know it sounds morbid, but in many ways I think your mother’s death has released her.’ Una sweeps a cloth over the crumb-scattered worktop. ‘Now Pip just needs to know we’re behind her. We don’t want her losing confidence and buckling. In my experience, controlling men rarely change – Stefan’s likely to try to sweet-talk her, convince her it was a one-off. We need to keep her on track.’

  Celine taps out another message to Pip: Proud of you, sis. Keep us posted on when you’re getting back here and send love to the girls xxx

  After breakfast, she has a quick shower and heads off in the car, while Una stays behind, waiting for an update from Dave Aston. The tense wait is getting too much for Celine, so she decides to drive around Arundel while she thinks about the case, and after a time she finds herself passing the castle walls, and parking in the road next to Swanbourne Lake, where Susan Green’s body was found in 1995. She leaves her car on the country road beyond the red entrance gates and continues on foot, to walk around the perimeter of the lake, where a dozen or more white-painted pleasure boats sway in the water alongside the bank, each of them named: Basil, Sweet Lady, Oops A Daisy, Mim. Was one of these wooden dinghies Susan’s final resting place? Or one much like it? What was her boat’s name? Surely the police would have removed the boat from service, to crawl over it in forensic detail before eventually having it decommissioned and destroyed. No one could want to take a pleasure trip in it after what had happened.

  It’s still early in the day, and not yet high season, and so the walkers are few, far outnumbered by the waterfowl that make this nature reserve their home. Swans and their cygnets cut through the glassy water in perfect formation, as Muscovy ducks preen themselves in the shall
ows where the lake runs to gravel. All around, little pathways and trails lead off into the woods, alive with birdsong and dappled with spring sunlight. Halfway around the lake, Celine takes a seat on a wooden bench and looks back across the water, taking in the surroundings, the café and woods to one side, more benches and footpaths to the other. So, Harry Glass had been the young groundskeeper here when he discovered Susan Green, her blood-soaked body cold and lifeless, just hours after she’d given birth. From what they can tell from the police records, it was believed she’d made it on foot to the Poor Clares convent at Crossbush, where she’d abandoned her baby on their doorstep before heading here to die. What unearthly show of strength or despair had allowed her to do that? To walk, still bleeding, all those miles, with a child no doubt swaddled close, only to hand it over and turn back into the darkness, alone. Childless. Did Susan really row out into the water alone, or was she put there? Celine’s mind races over the possibilities. Was Harry Glass not just some innocent bystander but instead somehow involved in Susan’s death, or at least the depositing of her body? And was Jem Falmer there too, Harry’s old school friend – an accomplice in murder?

  A gaggle of water birds congregates nearby, delicate creatures, black with little white heads, efficiently moving about as they peck for insects. Celine takes her phone from her pocket and types ‘Poor Clares’ into Google maps, and discovers that the convent is just six minutes away by car.

  With renewed purpose, she marches back along the lake’s edge, mentally going over the many confusing threads of this case. If Harry Glass is their man, it means Seed and all the other Two Cross women are out of the frame. And yet, Seed is definitely hiding something, Celine is sure. Bramble too. The dead women’s tattoos say something, but, arguably, that something might just be a marker of the fact they were all residents at Two Cross Farm at some point. But the location of the bodies, the placing of them so carefully and near to water, can’t be ignored. Vanessa on Brighton pier; Robyn at the River Arun; Susan, here, on Swanbourne Lake. It certainly feels like a compelling argument that this is the work of one man – or two.