‘Do you really think she could have killed Rick?’ says Neil. ‘Why?’
‘She sounded pretty annoyed with him in the diaries,’ I said.
‘You’re often annoyed with me,’ said Neil, ‘but you don’t try to kill me.’
Ah, motive and opportunity, what fickle bedfellows you are. But Neil was right, really. It was hard to imagine Clare killing Rick because of a crush he’d had months ago or because he’d made her do more than her fair share of the marking.
‘She’s a cold fish though,’ said Donna. ‘Was she really planning to have sex with her boyfriend in the school? After everything that’s happened?’
Clare had come back into the interview room and we all watched her through the window. She sat in the chair with her hands on the arms. She wasn’t fidgeting or looking at her phone, as most people would be. She was simply staring straight in front of her, her face inscrutable.
‘Maybe it was the danger that made it exciting,’ I said, thinking of the only time I’d planned to have sex in an empty classroom. ‘I don’t think Clare killed Rick but she’s the key to the case all the same. After all, it’s her diaries that have the writing in them.’
‘Unless she wrote them herself,’ said Donna.
‘The handwriting expert thought that it was a different person,’ I said. ‘Probably a man.’
‘There’s definitely something not quite right about her,’ said Donna.
We interviewed Henry Hamilton at nine. He didn’t have much to add, but he did admit, in answer to Neil’s question, that he had been hoping to sleep with Clare. There was nothing else to link him to the case. He had never met Rick, or been to Talgarth High before that night.
We contacted Tony Sweetman, who was away skiing for the weekend, if you please. Apparently they had ‘a part share of a chalet near Annecy’ and there was ‘early snow this year’. I told him to come back to Sussex immediately and that the school would have to close tomorrow, possibly for the week.
‘I’ll need to contact the governors.’
‘Then contact them.’
He gave a kind of groan. ‘This’ll be the end of us, after all my improvements.’
The man really was an arse. I was sorry, in a way, that he had a cast-iron alibi for Rick’s murder.
Rick’s wife had identified his body. The Family Liaison Officer was still with her but Neil and I were hoping to interview Daisy Lewis in the afternoon. By midday we were flagging slightly. Neil went out for burgers and chips and we ate them in Donna’s office.
‘We’ll need to do a statement for the press,’ said Donna. ‘I’ve already had the Herald on the phone. People saw the flashing lights last night.’
‘It’s on Twitter,’ said Neil, scrolling through his phone. ‘Wtf happnin @ Talgarth. My old schl wot a dump.’
‘Who wrote that?’ I said, looking over Neil’s shoulder.
‘Someone called FoxyLadee.’
‘That narrows it down a bit.’
‘We’ll just say that a man was found dead,’ said Donna. ‘Police investigating. No link to Ella’s death.’
‘Nevertheless, people will make the link,’ I said.
‘Here’s a good one,’ said Neil, still looking at his Twitter feed. ‘It could of bin the Talgarth ghost #whitelady. That one’s from Big Mac.’ He laughed and took a bite of his burger.
I wiped my fingers on my jeans and took his phone. ‘Someone’s answered. The white lady has had her revenge.’
‘Who’s that from?’ said Neil.
‘MrCarter.’
Gary Carter hadn’t even had the sense to change his name.
Chapter 26
We went to see Daisy Lewis at three. The roads were quiet, as if everyone was indoors enjoying a Sunday lunch with all the trimmings.
‘Roast beef,’ said Neil.
‘Chicken tikka masala,’ I said, just to wind him up. ‘That’s the nation’s favourite dish now.’
‘My mum’s Yorkshire puddings are to die for.’ Neil was off down Nostalgia Lane. ‘Kelly’s aren’t nearly as good.’
‘Why don’t you make them yourself?’ I said. ‘Hasn’t Kelly got enough to do, what with looking after Lily and all that?’
‘I cook,’ said Neil, sounding offended. ‘More than you do, I bet.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, nosing through another Shoreham backstreet trying to find a parking space. ‘But then I’ve got the sense to live with my mum.’
I eventually found a space outside the library. It was near the maze of small roads where Ella had lived. It struck me that the two victims’ homes were very close to each other.
The door was opened by the FLO, a pleasant woman called Maggie O’Hara. We would debrief her later; the FLO always has valuable insights because they see the victim’s family at their lowest. Maggie led us into a large kitchen with an old-fashioned range oven and a scrubbed wooden table. A family kitchen, I thought, before remembering again that the Lewises didn’t have children. Daisy was sitting at the table with another woman who could have been her identical twin.
‘This is my sister, Lauren,’ she said. ‘Can she stay?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Lewis.’
She acknowledged this with a gulp, rubbing her eyes with an already sodden tissue.
‘Maggie thought you might be up to answering a few questions,’ I said.
‘Maggie’s been so kind,’ said Daisy, looking round vaguely.
‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘I know it’s hard, Daisy, but we want to catch the person who did this terrible thing and that means we have to act quickly. So anything that you could remember would be very valuable.’
It’s my standard speech but it seemed to work. Daisy sat up straighter and tucked her tissue into her sleeve. Lauren offered us tea or coffee and Neil and I both asked for coffee. I don’t know about Neil but I was so tired that my eyelids seemed to be turning themselves inside out.
‘When did you last see Rick?’ I asked, when we all had our drinks and were sitting round the table like some parody of a tea party.
‘Yesterday,’ said Daisy. ‘We’d just watched Strictly’ — of course they had — ’and we were going to watch a Swedish film on BBC4 when Rick got a call on his mobile and said he had to go into the school.’
‘On a Saturday night?’ I said. ‘Was that usual?’
‘No,’ said Daisy. ‘I mean, he’s gone in at the weekend before. When they were preparing for an inspection, or something like that. But this was out of the blue. He just got the call and said he had to go in.’
‘Do you know who the call was from?’
‘I assumed it was Tony. The head.’
But Tony was off disporting himself on the ski-slopes. ‘Was it a man’s voice?’ I asked.
‘I couldn’t hear,’ she said. ‘But I assumed so. I think Rick may have said “he”.’
But, given Rick’s track record, I didn’t think this was anything to go by.
‘What happened then?’
‘He just kissed me goodbye. Picked up the car keys and left. He said I might be in bed when he got in. And I was . . .’ Her face crumpled. ‘I was asleep when I got the call . . .’
Lauren patted her shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Dais. It’s OK.’
Rick Lewis’ car had been found in the car park at Talgarth so he had gone to the school. Who had called him? Strictly ends at about eight and Clare and Henry had arrived at eleven. That left three hours for someone to murder Rick and prop his body up in R.M. Holland’s study. There had been no blood in the room that I could see so I assumed that he had been killed elsewhere. Rick Lewis had been a tall man, quite thin but still a dead weight to lug up that spiral staircase. Could a woman have managed it? Could Clare have managed it? Her Italian meal was booked for eight-thirty and I suppose she could just have got to Tal
garth, killed Rick, and sprinted to Chichester, but that would be cutting it very fine. Not to mention the lack of bloodstains on her fancy clothes.
‘How did Rick seem when he got the call?’ asked Neil.
‘OK. A bit irritated maybe. I mean, it was the weekend, after all. But he was OK. He kissed me goodbye,’ she repeated, as if this proved something. Well, perhaps it did.
‘Daisy,’ I said, leaning forward across the table. ‘We’re working on a theory that Rick’s death was linked to that of Ella Elphick. Did Rick say anything about Ella’s death that seemed strange to you? Did he mention anyone getting in touch with him about it?’
‘Getting in touch with him?’
‘A letter or a phone call? A text message?’
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘He was sad about Ella, of course. She was one of his best teachers. But he didn’t know anything about her death.’
This was interesting because it wasn’t what I had asked.
‘Did Rick get on well with Ella?’ I asked.
‘They didn’t have an affair,’ said Daisy, ‘if that’s what you mean. If you ask me, it’s all that bitch’s fault.’
‘Ella?’
‘No. The other one. Clare Cassidy. She’s always had it in for Rick.’
I was tantalisingly close to home but I had to drive Neil back to the station. While I was there I thought I might as well pick up Clare’s diaries. Forensics had finished with them and, if Clare was indeed the key to the case, what could be better than spending the evening reading through her innermost thoughts? I was struck by the way that Daisy Lewis had blamed Clare, not Ella, for Rick’s death. She’d called her a ‘bitch’ which was strong language coming from a woman like Daisy. Clare was obviously the sort of woman who aroused strong emotions.
I drove home slowly, aware that I was so tired I almost felt drunk. When I got in, Mum was in the kitchen, cooking as usual, accompanied by Kiaan and Alisha. On one hand I was irritated that Abid and Cara had dumped their kids on Mum again, on the other it was always nice to see my nephews and nieces, especially the young impressionable ones.
‘Auntie Harbinder! Have you been arresting people?’
‘Have you killed anyone?’
‘Sadly no.’ I sat down at the table and started to eat. There’s always a running buffet at Mum’s while we are waiting for the main event: samosas, bhajias, roti and my favourite, crunchy peanut vadas.
‘Where’s your mum and dad?’ I asked Alisha, through the crunching. She had come to sit on my lap. She’s five, still young enough to do stuff like that. Kiaan is seven and starting to keep his distance, although he was demonstrating tai chi moves to keep my attention.
‘Gone to the cinema,’ said Kiaan, mid-lunge. ‘It’s their date night.’
‘It’s good to keep the romance alive,’ said Mum, whilst kneading, chopping and frying, seemingly all at once. ‘Have some time together without the kids.’
‘They’ve gone to see Murder on the Oreo Express,’ Alisha told me. ‘It’s not suitable for children.’
‘It doesn’t sound it,’ I say, pushing her off and standing up. ‘Now I’ve got to go and do some work.’
‘You’ve been up all night,’ said Mum. ‘Relax. Play some computer games with the children.’
‘Yes!’ shouted Kiaan. ‘Grand Theft Auto!’
‘That’s not suitable for children either,’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s go and watch a film in the den.’
I slept solidly through Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, only waking up when someone was stabbing a diary with a giant incisor. The blood/ink flowed over the pages in a way that disturbed me but seemed to have no effect on Alisha and Kiaan, partly because Dad had come in and was doing his famous Tickling Monster that Overturns the Furniture act. I left them to it and sneaked upstairs to my room.
I put my work bag on my bed but sat in the desk chair. It would be fatal to go to sleep again. Before I started the secret diaries of Clare Cassidy, aged 45, I had a call to make.
‘Hallo?’ Gary answered warily, in spite of the fact that my name must have come up on his phone.
‘Hi, Gary. How are you?’
‘I’m all right. What’s going on at the school? Is that why you’re ringing?’
‘In a way,’ I said. ‘I saw what you wrote on Twitter, about the white lady.’
There was a pause, then Gary said, ‘I didn’t know you were on Twitter’, which so much wasn’t the point that I almost laughed.
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘My partner is though. My work partner,’ I added quickly. ‘You should know that the police check stuff like this.’
‘But I didn’t say anything wrong.’
‘No, but what did you mean about the white lady having her revenge?’
Another pause, a longer one with heavy breathing in it. ‘I just meant . . . if someone has died . . .’
‘Who says someone has died?’
‘It’s what people are saying,’ said Gary, sounding panicky now. ‘That someone’s been killed at the school.’
‘Who’s saying that?’
A silence.
‘Come on, Gary. You have to tell me.’
‘My mate Alan in PE,’ said Gary at last. ‘He heard it from Dave, the caretaker. They play Sunday football together.’
I was surprised that Dave was fit enough for football but then I remembered the bloated, track-suited figures that I sometimes saw stumbling round the park. I almost called the paramedics to resuscitate one of them once.
‘He shouldn’t be talking about it,’ I said.
‘I haven’t got him into trouble, have I?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s bound to get out soon.’
‘Is it true then?’ Gary’s voice dropped to a whisper even though I was pretty sure that he was alone. ‘That Rick Lewis has been killed?’
‘I can’t give you that information,’ I said. Thus, of course, giving it to him.
‘Bloody hell.’ The penny dropped slowly and rattled to the bottom of the box.
‘What did you mean?’ I asked again. ‘The white lady has had her revenge?’
‘Well, it’s the legend, isn’t it? That the white lady appears when someone dies. You must remember. That time we saw her . . .’
‘Bye Gary,’ I said. ‘Be careful what you say on social media.’
Chapter 27
We were fifteen when we saw the ghost. We were in school late because Gary had a rehearsal with his band, a group of almost talent-free Year 11s with their own guitars and a passion for Tolkien. They were called Boromir’s Brother. I wasn’t the sort of girl who sat around watching her boyfriend’s band rehearse so I was working in the library, which was in the Old Building then. The librarian — what was her name? Miss McKenzie, that was it — was a funny old thing but she liked me. I think it was because I was almost the only person who read the old books, the leather-bound volumes with the gilt lettering crumbling to dust: Dickens, Collins, Mrs Gaskell, Trollope. I was also obsessed with James Herbert, but I didn’t tell Miss McKenzie that.
So I sat in the library doing my history homework. It was easer to work there than at home. In those days I had a tiny bedroom; Kush and Abid shared the big room that I have now. And there were always so many people at home, eating Mum’s cooking, talking Punjabi, crying about leaving the old homeland. Plus, Dad might make me do a shift in the shop.
It was great in the old library, the shelves reaching up to the ceiling, the big windows looking out onto the field. There were window seats, too, and I spent many an afternoon there, immersed in a pleasant horror fantasy while the first eleven lost to some posher school down below. The library they have now is horrible; all plastic sofas and carousels and paperbacks in protective covers. The old library had history, you could feel it seeping through the walls and rising up from the floorboards, which were knotted and w
ide, like the gangplanks of a ship.
The library shut at six. It was the Christmas term and dark outside. At about five to, Miss McKenzie gathered up her knitting (it was endless and always in virulent blues and pinks — who can it have been for?) and started to check that no one was hiding behind the curtains.
‘Time to go, Harbinder,’ she said. ‘Is Gary still making that awful noise in the basement?’
She always knew who was going out with whom.
‘I expect so,’ I said.
But at that moment Gary appeared in the doorway, carrying his guitar case. I said goodbye to Miss McKenzie.
‘Bye, Harbinder. Bye, Gary. Go straight home now.’
But instead, we sneaked along the first floor corridor, looking for a room to snog in. We were quite passionate in those days. It’s hard to imagine it now. I think, even then, I had my doubts about men but I was determined to give it my best shot. Gary was just desperate to lose his virginity.
Eventually we found an empty classroom, one of the odd rooms that might have been a bedroom in its original incarnation. It had a little, wrought-iron fireplace, with a rather elaborate design of poppies and leaves. Was it near the room where Rick Lewis was murdered? I can’t think. Possibly.
We were getting quite intense. My bra was off and he had his hand down my trousers. My generation fought to wear trousers at school but all the Talgarth girls wear skirts now; that’s gratitude for you. Then something happened. The room suddenly became very cold. But it was much more than that. It was desolate, like the wind blowing across the estuary at night. I felt as if I’d never be happy again. We drew apart. I did up my bra and Gary zipped up his fly. We didn’t speak. We grabbed our stuff and left the room.
We walked back along the corridor. I remember Gary’s guitar case banging against my legs, the lights turning off one by one as Pervy Pete did his final rounds. And then — something flew past us. It’s hard to describe. Afterwards I remembered a woman in a long, white dress but Gary said that it was more like a whirlwind, something black and featureless. All I know is that all the cold, and all the horror, seemed to be coming from this creature, this thing. We heard a crack as the shape hit the balustrade on the staircase and then a terrible, terrible scream. I’ve never heard anything like it and I hope I never will again.
The Stranger Diaries Page 19
