The Stranger Diaries

by Elly Griffiths

  But he didn’t deny it. I was about to ask more when my phone buzzed. Neil.

  ‘Come back to the station. I’ve found something on the CCTV.’

  Neil was full of excitement. He loves being the one to make a breakthrough. To be fair, it doesn’t happen often.

  ‘I was looking through the CCTV from the church outside Ella’s house,’ he said. ‘Just to see if we missed anything the first time.’ What did he want? A bloody medal? A prefect’s badge?

  Neil was almost dragging me towards his computer. ‘Remember there were a couple of teenagers on their phones?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, look again. I’ve enlarged the image.’

  I looked. There on the screen, in grainy pixels, was a hooded youth, phone in hand. The camera had caught a moment when he’d looked up, face illuminated by a blue security light.

  It was Patrick O’Leary.

  Chapter 30

  We drove straight to Patrick’s house. He lived in Shoreham, over the ferry bridge, by the towpath where the houseboats clanked gently in the water. I used to love the houseboats when I was a child. The neat ones, with window boxes and names like ‘Youanme’, the dilapidated ones, low in the water, with rotting timbers and dirty net curtains at the windows, the hippyish ones, with stars and wind-chimes where, even in my pre-police days, I could smell marijuana. The O’Learys had a small, modern house on one of the roads between the sea and the estuary. There was something insubstantial about it, as if it hadn’t been built to last, with yellow plastic facings and a tiny balcony, too small for a person to stand on. There was rubbish in the front garden as if someone had wanted to light a bonfire and then lost interest. The whole place looked sad and unloved.

  Patrick opened the door himself, looking as if he had just got out of bed.

  ‘Hallo, Patrick,’ I said. ‘Are your mum and dad in?’

  He stared, holding the door half shut. ‘No, they’re at work.’

  ‘Can you call them? We need to talk to you and we need an adult present.’

  ‘I’m an adult,’ said a voice behind Patrick. Another youth came to slouch beside him. They were clearly brothers, both heavily built with black hair and surly expressions. Right now, though, Patrick looked more frightened than surly.

  ‘It’s the police, Declan. They want to talk to me.’

  ‘Have you got a warrant?’ said Declan, stepping in front of his younger brother.

  I sighed. Another one who watched too much TV. ‘We don’t need a warrant. We’re not arresting Patrick or searching your house. We just need to talk to him and we need an appropriate adult present.’

  ‘I’m an appropriate adult,’ said Declan.

  ‘No,’ said Patrick, rather to my relief. ‘I’m calling Mum.’

  We waited in the car until Maureen O’Leary arrived, still wearing her nurse’s uniform. Patrick met her at the door and they both turned as Neil and I approached.

  ‘Thanks so much for coming, Mrs O’Leary,’ I said. ‘I’m DS Kaur and this is DS Winston. We need to talk to Patrick in connection with the murder of Ella Elphick.’

  ‘Murder?’ said Mrs O’Leary. ‘What are you talking about?’ She was a small woman — the boys must get their height from their dad — but she was pretty formidable all the same, the sort of nurse who plunges in the needle before you’ve even rolled up your sleeve.

  ‘The murder of Ella Elphick,’ I repeated.

  ‘Ella? Oh, the teacher. Is that why the school’s shut again today? It’s a disgrace. Patrick’s got his GCSEs this year.’

  ‘Can we go inside?’ I said. ‘Then I can explain.’

  We sat in a tiny room dominated by a huge television and a fluorescent fish tank. Declan stayed beside his brother and I didn’t think it was worth asking him to leave. I was pretty sure that anything we said would be heard throughout the flimsy house. Even so, it was a tight squeeze. Declan, Maureen and Patrick jammed together on the sofa. Neil and I sat on chairs facing them.

  I showed Patrick the enlarged photograph.

  ‘Is this you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘It was taken outside Ella Elphick’s house on the night that she was murdered.’

  A silence. Maureen said, but without much conviction, ‘That’s not Patrick.’

  ‘Is it you, Patrick?’

  A silence, then Patrick said, almost in a whisper, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell us what you were doing there that night?’

  ‘I wanted to see her. Miss Elphick,’ he said. ‘To explain about the card.’

  ‘What card? The valentine you sent her?’ I could tell that it was news to Maureen O’Leary, but probably not to Declan.

  ‘Yes,’ said Patrick, looking down at his hands. He had a complicated-looking watch on one wrist, a tangle of friendship bracelets on the other. He was wearing trainers. Nike Air, just like Mr Sweetman. They looked better on Patrick.

  ‘What made you think about the card?’ said Neil. ‘Valentine’s Day was nine months ago.’

  ‘I had to make amends,’ said Patrick. ‘That’s what Miss Hughes said. So I went to Miss Elphick’s house that evening. Just to explain why I’d sent the card. Mr Lewis made out like I was stalking her or something when he kicked me out of her form. But it wasn’t like that. I just liked her. I wanted to tell her that. No one knew I went there. Mum, Dad and Declan were all out. I walked over and I knocked on the door but there was no answer.’

  ‘What did you do then?’ I asked.

  ‘I waited. I thought she was in because I saw her car in the street. I waited over the road by the church.’

  ‘How long did you wait?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes?’

  He’d only been caught on the CCTV once but it really just captured the church porch. Thinking of this, I asked, on the off-chance, ‘While you were outside, did you see anyone going into Miss Elphick’s house or leaving it?’

  I hadn’t expected an answer but Patrick looked straight at me for the first time. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I saw Mr Lewis leaving the house.’

  ‘Mr Lewis? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’ A short laugh. ‘I’d recognise that wanker anywhere.’

  Maureen aimed a slap at him. ‘Patrick O’Leary!’

  ‘What were you doing on Saturday night, Patrick?’ I asked.

  ‘Why are you asking him that?’ This was Declan, who seemed determined to be his brother’s spokesperson. He was the type who would go on to become a lawyer. Or a criminal.

  ‘It’s a simple question,’ I said.

  Patrick looked down at his trainers. ‘I was at home.’

  ‘Alone?’

  Maureen said, sounding defensive, ‘Pat and I were at the pub with friends. Declan was out with his girlfriend.’

  ‘So, you were alone, Patrick?’

  He raised his head. ‘Yes. I was alone.’

  ‘When did you get back, Mrs O’Leary?’

  ‘About midnight. Why are you asking him these questions?’

  But Patrick knew. ‘Is it true then, that Mr Lewis has been murdered?’

  ‘So Rick had been at Ella’s house that night,’ said Neil. We were driving along the beach road. The sea was still and grey, blending with the grey stony beach and grey sky.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Pity we can’t ask him about it.’

  ‘It looks like the same MO for Ella and Rick,’ said Neil.

  ‘Except that Rick was strangled — garrotted — not stabbed.’

  ‘Yeah, but the note and everything. It’s definitely the same person. Do you think it could be Patrick?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ I said. ‘He’s big and strong enough. He had a crush on Ella and clearly resented Rick. Did you hear him say that Rick made out he was stalking Ella? There was real anger there.
And he doesn’t have an alibi for Saturday.’

  ‘I thought he was lying about being home alone,’ said Neil.

  ‘So did I,’ I said, ‘but it could just have been something he didn’t want his mum to know about. We’ll have to interview him again. Maybe with his dad this time.’

  ‘So you like him for it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘These murders are well-thought-out, planned carefully in advance. The note in the plastic bag, the tarpaulin on the floor. I don’t see Patrick as a planner somehow.’

  ‘What did his teachers say about him?’ Neil took the turning back inland. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. It was like watching someone take their driving test.

  I looked back through my notes. ‘Clever enough, good at sport, sometimes in trouble for fighting. Like I said, a bit of a hothead. There was one thing, though — did you hear the teacher he mentioned? The one who told him to make amends?’

  ‘No. Who was it?’

  ‘Miss Hughes. I don’t think she teaches at Talgarth. The funny thing is, Clare mentions a Bryony Hughes in her diaries. Says she’s a witch.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Neil. ‘That’s all we need.’

  My phone buzzed. Clare Cassidy. I pressed ‘speakerphone’.

  ‘DS Kaur. Please come quickly.’ Clare’s voice fills the car, sobbing, frantic. ‘I think someone’s taken Herbert.’

  Chapter 31

  ‘Who the hell’s Herbert?’ said Neil.

  ‘Her dog,’ I said. ‘Let’s go straight to her place.’

  ‘For a missing dog? Why doesn’t she call the RSPCA? And there’s a squad car outside her house. Can’t they help?’

  ‘You heard her voice,’ I said. ‘Clare’s letting her guard down for the first time. If I can go over there, be all sympathetic, I might just find something out.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what she really felt about Ella and Rick.’

  ‘I thought you’d read her diaries.’

  ‘Diaries don’t tell you what people think. Just what they think they think. You don’t have to stay. Just drop me off.’

  ‘It’s a waste of your time,’ said Neil but he took the turning under the flyover towards Steyning. I was always amazed by the way the horses grazed in the fields below, seemingly unconcerned by the cars roaring over their heads.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But you’re forgetting one thing: maybe someone has taken Herbert. Maybe the person who wrote in her diary is stalking Clare. They might go for the dog today and the daughter tomorrow.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Kaur. Are you always this cheerful?’

  ‘You know I’m right,’ I said.

  Neil dropped me off outside the row of town houses in the middle of nowhere. Clare opened the door before I’d knocked.

  ‘Georgie took him over the field,’ she said. ‘She stopped to look at her phone and, when she looked up, he’d gone.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Georgie appeared in the background, her face tear-stained. ‘I only looked at my phone for, like, a minute.’

  ‘Of course it’s not your fault, darling.’ Clare put her arm round her daughter and, for the very first time, I almost liked her. Even so, what were these two thinking? They were still under police protection and Georgia should not have been out on her own. Had Clare forgotten that she’d almost witnessed a murder the day before yesterday?

  ‘He’s probably still in the field,’ I said, insinuating myself into the house. ‘Rabbiting or something.’

  ‘We’ve been round the field,’ said Clare. ‘And in the lanes. Barry and Steve are driving round the streets now, looking for him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The policemen outside our house.’ Clare looked surprised. ‘Don’t you know their names?’

  ‘Not offhand,’ I said. ‘Now the most important thing to do is keep calm. The first hours are vital in a misper.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Missing person case,’ supplied Georgia. So Georgia was a fan of cop dramas, was she?

  ‘First thing,’ I shepherded them into the kitchen. I hadn’t been there before and I must say I was impressed. They’d extended into the garden and there was a skylight, a breakfast bar and a separate dining area. Cooking utensils and dried herbs hung from the ceiling but the surfaces were clear and shiny, like a CSI lab.

  ‘The first thing,’ I said, ‘is tea. Georgia, can you put the kettle on? Second thing, plan of attack.’ I got out my notebook. ‘When did you last see Herbert?’

  ‘Eleven twenty-four,’ said Georgia immediately. ‘It was when I looked at my phone.’

  I looked at the oversized clock over the dining table. There were no numbers but the hands were forming a right angle.

  ‘We’re still in the golden hour,’ I said. ‘So you’ve searched the field and the surrounding area. What about closer to home? Missing persons often gravitate back home. I was called out for a missing teenager once and she was asleep in her bed.’

  Clare actually laughed at this one. She seemed to be calming down slightly. Georgia placed a mug of tea in front of her.

  ‘I’ve looked in the garden,’ said Georgia, ‘and shaken his dog biscuits.’

  ‘Look again,’ I said. ‘Have you got a shed?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clare. She and Georgia went into the garden and I watched them poking around the corners of the tiny space as if the dog could possibly be there. I took a thoughtful swig of tea. If I could find Herbert, Clare and Georgia would definitely be my friends for life.

  I put my mug down and joined them in the garden. They were looking in the shed, which, like sheds everywhere, smelled of turpentine and housed old flower pots and a lawnmower. But no white, fluffy dog.

  Clare actually clutched my arm.

  ‘What if he’s been taken? What if someone’s taken him?’

  ‘He’ll come back, Mum,’ said Georgia. It was probably the least convincing thing I’d heard since Neil said that I wasn’t bossy.

  ‘But what if it’s him?’ Clare was still holding on to me. ‘You know, the one who wrote to me . . .‘

  ‘Shh,’ I said. Not just to shut her up and stop her terrifying her daughter — I’d heard something.

  ‘What is it?’ said Clare.

  ‘I thought I heard . . .’ I stopped. There it was again. A very faint bark.

  This time Clare and Georgia heard it too.

  ‘It’s him!’ said Clare. They both started calling, ‘Herbert! Herbert!’

  ‘Shh,’ I said again. ‘Let’s work out where it’s coming from.’

  Of course, the barking had stopped now. But I thought it had come from quite a way away, in a north-easterly direction. I looked beyond Clare’s garden and the three neat gardens next to it, towards the monster that no one in this smart terrace seemed to want to acknowledge. The factory.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and look. Have you got a special whistle or anything?’

  I’d meant something like a policeman’s whistle but Clare pursed her lips and two notes came floating out.

  ‘That’s his special sign,’ said Georgia proudly. ‘We can both do it.’

  ‘Terrific,’ I said. ‘Get ready to whistle.’ I felt like someone in one of Mum and Dad’s favourite black-and-white films. You know how to whistle, don’t you? You just put your lips together and blow.

  We went out the front door. It was a still day but cold and grey. The sun had never really come up and now, at just past midday, the shadows already seemed to be lengthening. I was wearing my jacket but neither Clare nor Georgia had a coat on. We walked to the end of the row of houses. Clare whistled. We waited.

  And there it was again. A shrill, sharp bark. And this time there was no doubting the direction.

  ‘He’s in the old factory,’ said Clare.

  The factory was fenced off but you could see places where local youths had got through the wire. I found an opening and squeezed through. Clare followed, no
t seeming to care that she had snagged her pink cashmere jumper.

  Surprisingly, Georgia held back. ‘Are we allowed?’ she said. ‘There’s CCTV.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘We’ll get backup.’ Privately, I thought it unlikely that the cameras still worked.

  ‘It’s against the law.’

  ‘I am the law,’ I said meaning to lighten the atmosphere but Georgie just stared at me.

  ‘You can wait here if you want,’ said Clare.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I want us to stay together. Come on, Georgie.’ I held the fence back for her and she edged through.

  We crossed the forecourt. It was weird. The place seemed to be left exactly as it had been when it stopped manufacturing. There were still lorries parked outside, their tyres rotten and wheel rims rusted. A monstrous chute hovered overhead as if it were about to deposit a ton of liquid cement. The main doors were locked and bolted but I knew there had to be a way in. We skirted the huge, square building. It was about seven stories high, with a tower at the back. Rows and rows of broken windows but none of them on the ground floor. Clare whistled again, and once more the answering bark came back.

  We walked around the building. At the rear the chalk cliffs rose up, higher than the tower. Did the cliffs mean that the sea used to come this far inland? I’d have to ask someone who knew about geology. Gary maybe. There was a small yard at the back and a door, wedged open by what looked like a tin of paint. I switched on my phone torch, wishing I had my Maglite with me.

  ‘Come on.’

  We were in what looked like a packing area. There were a few pallets left, with empty sacks that looked (and smelled) as if foxes had been living in them. There was wood too, chopped up as if for firewood. I thought of the chair that Rick Lewis had sat on before he was killed. CSI thought that the killer had taken the pieces away with them. Could they be here?

  There were three doors, like one of those computer games where you have to choose and risk being attacked by aliens or zombies. I chose the middle one and it led into a huge space, three stories high and completely empty. Light slanted in from windows at the top and I could hear birds — or bats — overhead. There was a kind of balcony around three sides at first floor level. Like a prison, I thought. Clare whistled and a bark came back, loud and clear, almost directly above us.