The Stranger Diaries

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you suspect Patrick?’

  I was dreading this question but Miss Hughes asked it so calmly that I was able to answer.

  ‘A little. He liked Miss Elphick and he hated Mr Lewis for taking him out of her class. And Patrick . . . well, he has got a temper.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Hughes. ‘Patrick has a dark aura sometimes. He’s a firestarter, a thrill-seeker. He can be dangerous. You can see that in his writing.’

  ‘But he can be so sweet,’ I said, thinking of the time when he bought me asparagus for my birthday because it’s my favourite veg, or when he recorded a programme about a dog because it reminded him of Herbert. All the Dodo clips he’s sent of people saving animals, all the times when we’ve laughed together in the creative writing group.

  ‘Yes, you are his good angel,’ said Miss Hughes. ‘You open his eyes to the light. Venetia . . . she’s not such a wholesome influence.’

  ‘What shall I do?’ I asked. ‘I know I should tell Harbinder — DS Kaur — or Mum. But I don’t want to get him into trouble.’

  Miss Hughes was silent for what seemed like a long time. She’s one of the only people I know who can sit completely still.

  Then she said, ‘I understand you conjured Ella’s spirit.’

  I stared at her. ‘How do you know?’

  I thought she would say that she sensed it in some mysterious wiccan way but instead she said, ‘I read it on MySecretDiary.’

  I had never thought of her looking on the site. We’ve talked about it in class but I always think of Miss Hughes as somehow being above social media. She barely even uses email. I have hundreds of handwritten notes from her. It occurred to me that if she was a member, she must be using an alias.

  ‘Very well-written it was too,’ she said, smiling at me kindly. ‘Excellent use of varying sentence structures.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I couldn’t help feeling pleased. ‘How did you know it was Ella? I didn’t mention her name.’

  ‘Who else could it have been?’ she said. ‘And I have felt a release. As if she’s at last free to the elements.’

  ‘Do you think we should do the same for Mr Lewis?’

  ‘I’m afraid Richard is still earthbound,’ said Miss Hughes. ‘He’s a much less advanced soul than Ella.’

  ‘And should I tell anyone about the stone?’ I said.

  ‘Sometimes silence is best,’ she said. ‘The universe has a way of working things out for itself.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was going to be all right.

  The bus dropped me off at the crossroads. It was a short walk home. I could see the factory walls very clearly, with the chalk cliffs behind them, gleaming in the darkness. If Mum asked, I would say that Tash’s mum dropped me off but couldn’t wait because she was picking up Fergus, T’s annoying little brother, from football. I walked along the edge of the fields because there was a verge there and cars were speeding along the road. It was six o’clock, still rush hour and stressed commuters were whizzing past in their BMWs and Audis. When I was a child, seven o’clock was my bedtime and I always think of the hours afterwards as adult time. I used to hear Mum and Dad talking downstairs, drinking wine and watching sophisticated things on the television. Of course, pretty soon they stopped chatting and starting hissing at each other, then shouting and, by the time I was ten, it was just me and Mum. But the University Challenge theme tune still makes me feel nostalgic.

  So I wasn’t scared at all. It wasn’t a frightening time of day.

  Then the breathing started.

  I had my earphones in so, at first, I thought it was coming from the podcast I was listening to. But then I stopped and took them out. The breathing continued, right behind me, coming from the hedgerows and the dark fields. A soft, animalistic sound but, all the same, I knew it wasn’t an animal. I thought of “The Monkey’s Paw” and the Thing that comes back from the dead, dragging itself up to the old couple’s front door. I thought of Patrick’s picture and the creature rising from the sea. I thought of Miss Hughes saying that Mr Lewis’ spirit was still ‘earthbound’. I started to walk faster and faster but the breathing followed, always just a few paces behind. I could see our house, the lighted window that meant Mum was home, her car parked outside. I began to run and then the breathing got faster, as if my pursuer was running too.

  I zigzagged across the road, narrowly avoiding the Audis, and sprinted down our little side street. The breathing had stopped and from the safety of our porch I looked back towards the fields. Was that a shape I saw, moving through the trees? But the night was dark and gave nothing away.

  I broke off my engagement to Ada. I wasn’t fit company for any decent person. I kept to my room, ostensibly working on my thesis but, in fact, writing the story with which I am now regaling you, my dear young friend. About the Hell Club and Halloween at the ruined house. About the dead bodies and our vow, made in the blood of our comrade. About Ebrahimi and Collins. About the nemesis that seemed to be following me. Again and again, I wrote the words:

  Hell is empty.

  When 31st October came round again, I was a mere shell. I knew people were worried about me. My tutor had tried to talk to me (even though he hated me now because of the way I had treated Ada), and the Junior Dean had gone as far as to request an interview, during which he impressed upon me the necessity of eating well and performing regular exercises. Mens sana in corpore sano. If only he knew the true state of my mind.

  All day I waited. I didn’t leave my room because I knew the nemesis would come, locked door or not. I didn’t hear the news until the next day, All Saints’ Day. I went for a stroll through the town, late at night. I often liked to do this, prowling the silent streets, alone with my thoughts. But, outside St John’s, I saw a fellow called Egremont standing in the shadow of the lodge, smoking his pipe. I recognised him as a member of the Hell Club but I hurried past, not wanting to get into conversation.

  ‘Hallo there.’ He called after me. ‘You were a friend of Bastian’s, weren’t you?’

  ‘I knew him,’ I said cautiously, although my heart was pounding.

  ‘Have you heard what happened to him? Awful news.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘What has happened to him?’

  ‘I heard it from one of the bedders just now. Bastian was in a train. One of the new sorts with connecting carriages. He was moving from one carriage to another when the train suddenly divided. He was crushed under the wheels. Poor fellow. What a terrible death.’

  I looked at Egremont, saw his pale face and the skull’s head badge on his lapel.

  ‘When did this happen?’ I asked.

  ‘Only yesterday,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure it’ll be in tomorrow’s Times.’

  It was a week before the newspaper cutting reached me, with the now familiar addendum.

  Hell is empty.

  Part the seventh

  Clare’s Diary

  Thursday 16th November 2017

  I’ve really had it with Simon now. What right does he have to be so patronising, so condescending? ‘I can’t stand by and see my daughter in danger.’ That’s what he said on the phone just now. His daughter. As if I would let anything happen to her. Just because I said that she was with Tash tonight. ‘I thought we agreed that she’d come home with you after school every day.’ ‘She’s with Tash,’ I said, ‘Tash’s mother is driving her home.’ ‘What do we know about this woman anyway?’ he asked. ‘You should have cleared it with me.’

  Cleared it with him! The man who ran off and left me, set up with a woman half his age and proceeded to have a brand new family. OK, we’d separated before he met Fleur and she’s technically only ten years younger. But the fact is, he’s become a pompous arse since he married her. That’s the trouble with lawyers. If people are paying you God-knows-how-much per hour, you start to think that your words are wor
th something.

  I’m the one who’s in danger and Simon doesn’t know the half of it — about the diaries, about the rough sleeper in the factory, about the fact that I was the one who found Rick with a knife sticking into him. Simon wants Georgie to go and live with him but that’s never going to happen. Oh, she likes it well enough for a weekend, but I think Fleur treats her like an au pair, using her to help take the kids swimming, etc. Georgie does like her half-siblings and I think she enjoys being in London, going for meals in China Town and all that. But she doesn’t want to live there full-time. She wants to stay with me.

  I didn’t tell Georgie about my argument with Simon. She came in a bit hot and bothered from Tash’s. She said she was worried about homework but, when I offered to help, she said no immediately. After all, what would a teacher know about homework? Work is a nightmare too at the moment. Thank God that our new supply teacher, Susan, brought in to cover for Rick, seems quite competent. Don is worse than useless and can’t control his classes at all. I have all the timetabling and the exam predictions on top of everything else to do. I don’t see how that school can keep going but it has to, of course, and, in a way, that’s all that’s keeping me going. The only way to get through it is to get through it. Who said that to me recently?

  My only other solace — apart from Herbert — is Henry. He FaceTimed again tonight. I love seeing him in his Cambridge room, the leaded light of his window, the monkish simplicity of it all. And he wasn’t put off by a little thing like finding a dead body on our first date. He wants to see me again. I must admit, I do find some comfort in that.

  Simon, though. I will never, ever let Simon take my daughter away from me. I can’t believe that I ever loved him. Sometimes it feels as if my life started to go wrong the day I met him.

  Chapter 37

  Life staggers on for a bit. Herbert soon recovered from his injury but still holds his paw in the air if Georgie says ‘poor little fellow’ or ‘hero dog’ in a certain tone of voice. Georgie didn’t want to go to Simon’s for the weekend (ha!) and we had a quiet time at home. She went to the cinema with Ty on Saturday night but was home by eleven. We went to Debra’s for Sunday lunch and Georgie enjoyed playing football with the boys and talking about books with Debra and Leo. Sometimes she sounds so sparky and intelligent. At those times I feel that I have done right by her and her education, whatever Simon says.

  School continues to be a trial. There’s so much work to do and all the students are hysterical, full of theories about Rick’s murder, liable to tears or outbreaks of minor violence. Rick’s funeral is on Thursday, at the church he and Daisy attended in Brighton. At least it won’t be in the chapel. I don’t think I could stand seeing another coffin being brought into the school. Tony is going to the funeral and he thinks I should too. ‘After all, you were . . . involved.’ He means I was the one who found him. To be fair, he hasn’t said a word about me being in school that night, despite how it must look. I think I probably should go to Rick’s funeral but I don’t know if I can bear it. Perhaps I’ll say that I can’t be spared from the timetable; that will almost certainly be true. We’re fully stretched, even with two supply teachers. But everyone is doing their bit and, in a funny way, it feels as if we are more of a team than when Ella and Rick were here. When they were alive. Anoushka and I are still plodding on with the play although it seems as if it will never be ready. Pippa is very good as Audrey but Bill doesn’t know his lines and the Plant has missed half the rehearsals.

  I hadn’t heard from Harbinder since she called round to tell me about the objects found ‘at the scene’. The night before we had drunk wine together and it seemed like we were almost friends. But, on Wednesday, when I get home from another hellish day, her car is outside the house.

  ‘What does she want?’ says Georgie. She doesn’t say much to me during our drives, just stays plugged into her phone. The only time she perks up is when we collect Herbert from Doggy Day Care.

  ‘With any luck, she’s come to tell us that they’ve caught the killer and everything’s all right again,’ I say.

  ‘Dream on, Mum.’

  It’s pouring with rain. Harbinder gets out of her car with her hood up. She’s on her own and I wonder if this means it isn’t an official police visit.

  ‘Come in,’ I say, trying to stop my umbrella blowing inside out. Georgie and Herbert have already shot inside. In the hall, Harbinder takes off her jacket. She looks as tired as I feel, shadows under her eyes, her hair scraped back in a ponytail.

  ‘Let’s go into the kitchen,’ I say. ‘Have some tea.’

  We sit at the breakfast bar with the rain battering against the skylight.

  ‘How’s life at Talgarth High?’ says Harbinder, helping herself to a biscuit.

  ‘A bundle of laughs,’ I say. ‘Murdering the head of English does wonders for morale.’

  ‘I thought you were head of English now.’

  ‘Acting head,’ I say. ‘There’s a world of difference.’

  Georgie’s upstairs so I feel I can say, ‘Any news?’

  ‘We’ve had some DNA reports back,’ she says. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  I’m slightly disappointed that she hasn’t come round just to drink tea with me.

  Harbinder takes a file from her bag but doesn’t open it. She says, very much in her ‘professional’ voice, ‘We got quite a lot of DNA from the bedding found in the old factory. Lots of bodily fluids on the sleeping bag.’

  ‘Spare me the details,’ I say.

  ‘OK. Well, that DNA was a match for DNA found at the crime scene.’

  ‘Which crime scene?’

  ‘R.M. Holland’s study. We found nasal fluid on the victim’s body and on the desk.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that the killer probably sneezed,’ she says, at her most deadpan. ‘The point is, Clare, that the person sleeping in the old factory is the person who killed Rick Lewis.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘I have to tell you,’ says Harbinder, her hand on the still-closed file. ‘Our advice to you is to go to a place of safety, preferably far away from Sussex. What about your Scottish granny?’

  I laugh. It’s all too ridiculous. I can’t leave Sussex, not when I’m the only person holding the English department together. But, at the same time, I get a vision of my grandparents’ house in Ullapool, the light reflecting on the sea, the mountains in the distance.

  ‘I can’t leave work,’ I say, ‘we’re really short-staffed. And Georgie can’t miss school, either. This is an important year for her.’

  ‘It might only be for a couple of weeks,’ says Harbinder. ‘And no one’s irreplaceable.’

  ‘I really think I might be at the moment.’

  ‘And teachers always say that students can’t miss school and it’s never true. Georgia would probably get more out of some time alone with you than from weeks of boring lessons about probability.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I’m at the sink, refilling the kettle, so don’t hear Georgie come in. She is standing there, in her hideous Talgarth uniform, suddenly looking incredibly beautiful, very pale with her hair streaming down her back.

  ‘We’re talking about you and your mum getting away for a bit,’ says Harbinder, without missing a beat. ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘How could I miss school?’

  ‘God, you’ve been brainwashed,’ says Harbinder. ‘I thought everyone wanted time off school.’

  To my surprise Georgie laughs. ‘Well, I do hate maths. Especially probability.’

  ‘Me too,’ says Harbinder. ‘There’s a lot of it in policing, unfortunately.’

  ‘Why are you telling us to get away?’ says Georgie. She sits opposite Harbinder. I feel marginalised, like the bartender in a Western. What’s eatin’ you, Buck?

  ‘DNA found at the scene corresponds to
samples taken from the bedding at the factory,’ says Harbinder. This is way more than I would have told Georgie. I try to signal my distress from the sidelines.

  ‘Have you found a match for the DNA?’ says Georgie.

  Harbinder laughs. ‘That’s the trouble with youngsters today. They know more about police procedures than I do. The DNA doesn’t match any on file and we’ve cross-checked with known offenders in the area.’

  ‘So it’s a stranger?’

  ‘In all probability, yes.’

  I don’t know why it should be a huge relief that there’s an unknown killer on the loose but somehow it is. I can see my hands unclenching.

  ‘Did you find anything else at the crime scene?’ Georgie is asking.

  ‘I’ve told you enough,’ says Harbinder. ‘I’ll get thrown out of the magic circle.’

  Georgie laughs and wanders off. Harbinder stays and eats more biscuits and we talk about Herbert. It’s only afterwards that I wonder why she really called round.

  Chapter 38

  I do go to Rick’s funeral in the end. I don’t think I can really get out of it. I sit there between Tony and Liz Francis, the deputy head, and listen as people describe Rick as ‘a man filled with God’s light’. He was quite happy-clappy. I hadn’t realised. The service is in a community centre and people raise up their hands when they sing the hymns. The music is actually quite good; the girl leading it has a wonderful gospel voice that reaches right up to the Halloween balloons still left in the rafters. The pastor makes rather a good speech. ‘Without faith we have no hope of the resurrection and we are for ever reliving Easter Saturday without the dawn rising on the Sabbath.’ I can see Daisy Lewis nodding vigorously in the front row.

  I don’t have any religious faith. My parents are atheists, in spite of the fact that my father — whose family was originally from Ireland — was brought up as a Catholic in a rather woolly ‘aren’t the saints nice, let’s give up sweets for Lent’ kind of way. At home we talked about religious people in the patronising way that anthropologists used to describe the so-called ‘lost tribes’. My parents are both university lecturers and those sorts of conversations were meat and drink to them. Sometimes I used to long for them to be quiet so I could just read. Perhaps being a Catholic wouldn’t be so bad, I used to think. At least people wouldn’t talk through the service and you’d have a couple of hours peace on a Sunday. Also, some religious education would have been useful for understanding T.S. Eliot, to say nothing of Milton and Chaucer. My brother Martin, the doctor who is always ‘on call’ at Christmas, has no patience with any such thinking. He has brought up his children on strictly rational lines. No tooth fairy, no Father Christmas, no Little Baby Jesus. They are bound to become Scientologists.