The Stranger Diaries

by Elly Griffiths

  Stylistic tics. Heaven help us.

  ‘When did your creative writing group last meet?’ asked Neil.

  ‘On Monday. Georgia was unable to come. I think her mother is keeping her on a tight rein at the moment.’

  Not tight enough, I thought. There was definite antagonism in the way she said ‘her mother’. I remembered that Clare had not been one of Bryony’s dear friends.

  ‘So when did you last see Georgia?’ I asked.

  Bryony hesitated and patted her hair before replying. A tell, if I ever saw one.

  ‘Last Thursday,’ she said. ‘She came to see me after school.’

  ‘Why did she do that?’

  ‘She wanted to show me some short stories. She’s very serious about her writing.’

  ‘Can we see them?’

  ‘They’re at home.’ I wondered if she was lying.

  ‘When did you last see Patrick?’ asked Neil.

  ‘At the creative writing class on Monday.’

  ‘Is he a good writer too?’ I asked.

  ‘Quite promising,’ said Bryony. ‘Very visceral.’

  I wasn’t entirely sure what this meant but wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of asking.

  ‘Does Patrick ever post on MySecretDiary?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. I think his nom de plume is Puma.’

  My phone buzzed but I ignored it. Seconds later, Neil’s went off and he left the room to answer it.

  Bryony Hughes smiled at me. ‘Have you remembered meeting me when you were here, Harbinder?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You read a short story that I had written. You sent me a note saying that it was good.’

  Goodness knows why I wrote a short story for the school magazine. I had never done such a thing before. I didn’t think anyone actually read the damn thing but Miss Hughes evidently did. She had sent me a card, a picture of Muriel Spark at her desk. Of course. Miss Jean Brodie.

  ‘It was about the Holland House ghost,’ she said. ‘I’m very interested in ghosts.’

  Before I could answer, Neil came back into the room. ‘Harbinder. We need to go.’

  I gave Bryony my card and said that I’d be in touch. She said that she’d look forward to it. As we clattered down the stairs, Neil told me what the call had been about.

  ‘That was Olivia. A Mrs Sherbourne has been into the station. Apparently Venetia and Patrick are missing.’

  ‘Venetia’s a good girl,’ said Alicia Sherbourne. ‘She would never run away like this.’

  Alicia — ash-blonde hair, cashmere jumper, tight jeans and flat pumps — was a typical Haslemere mother. I remembered that Venetia attended St Faith’s, the private school, and was, presumably, several social notches above Patrick O’Leary.

  ‘When did you last see Venetia?’ asked Neil.

  ‘On Friday morning when she left for school,’ said Alicia, taking out a tiny, lace handkerchief. ‘She said that she was going to spend the night with a friend, Natasha. She was meant to be going straight to her clarinet lesson at nine this morning but her teacher rang to say that she hadn’t turned up. Then I rang Natasha and her mother said that Venetia had never been there.’

  ‘What did you do next?’ I asked. It was now nearly eleven so we obviously hadn’t been her next port of call.

  ‘I rang round her friends, but no one had seen her and apparently Georgie’s on her way to Scotland. Then I rang the O’Learys.’

  ‘Is Patrick Venetia’s boyfriend?’ I said.

  ‘No!’ This was said with some vehemence. ‘Venetia doesn’t have a boyfriend. She’s not that sort of girl.’

  I didn’t look at Neil. ‘Why did you ring the O’Learys then?’

  A silence and some handkerchief twisting. ‘Venetia knew Patrick through Natasha and some of the Talgarth girls.’

  There was quite a lot of contempt in that phrase. It made me rather proud to be a Talgarth girl myself.

  ‘And Patrick is missing too?’ said Neil.

  ‘Yes. He didn’t come home last night. Not that his mother seemed at all concerned. “He’s probably with a mate”.’ She made a delicate attempt at an Irish accent.

  ‘And you’ve tried ringing Venetia?’

  ‘Yes. Her phone’s turned off. Her phone’s never off.’ Alicia started to cry in earnest. I’m not good with tears so I went to find Olivia. Donna was waiting outside the interview room.

  ‘The results are back from the lab,’ she said.

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘It’s a match,’ she said. ‘Georgia’s prints were on the stone. The one found in Holland’s study. The black obsidian.’

  Part the ninth

  Georgia

  Chapter 43

  It’s so strange being on this train. It’s as if we’re in a capsule hurtling through space. We’re in this tiny room, Mum on the bunk below me and Herbert on the floor, and it’s like there’s only the three of us in the world. We had supper in the ‘lounge car’ and it even included haggis. Mum ate a bit and said it was quite nice but I’m training to be a vegetarian so I said no thanks. The steward had such a strong Scottish accent that I hardly understood him. But he did say I was ‘bonny’. I understood that. I think it’s a compliment despite sounding rather fat.

  Now, we’re in our berth and the train is rattling through the night. I haven’t got a phone signal and the Wi-Fi connection keeps going off but I’m listening to a podcast that I downloaded earlier so that’s OK.

  We must pass a mobile phone mast because messages suddenly appear. One from Ty and two from Vee. Ty’s says, ‘Hope u r ok xx.’ Vee’s say: ‘Where r u?’ and ‘Need talk.’

  ‘On a train,’ I text back. ‘On way to Scotland.’ A little blue and white flag appears helpfully next to the words.

  Vee’s answer comes back immediately. ‘Pls call. Need talk.’

  But the signal goes off again before I can reply.

  ‘Georgie?’ Mum’s voice from the bottom bunk. ‘Have you got a phone signal?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s just disappeared.’

  ‘Mine too. I wanted to ring Fleur to see how Simon is.’

  Something makes me wonder if she is telling the truth. I’d looked at her phone earlier and seen two messages from Henry Hamilton.

  ‘Dad’s not in any danger,’ I say. ‘That’s what Fleur told me.’

  ‘No,’ she says quickly. ‘He’s not in any danger.’

  ‘Who do you think attacked him?’ Somehow it’s easier to ask her this without seeing her face.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Maybe it was just a mugging.’

  ‘Do you think it’s the person who killed Miss Elphick — Ella — and Mr Lewis?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says again. ‘I just hope the police catch them soon.’

  ‘Harbinder said they would,’ I say. ‘She said they were close on the trail.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. But I can tell she doesn’t believe it. Herbert whines softly.

  ‘He’s getting bored,’ says Mum. ‘I should take him for a walk down the corridor.’

  ‘I’ll take him,’ I say.

  Suddenly I want to escape from this room, where I can touch both walls at the same time. I swing myself down and put Herbert’s lead on. ‘Come on, animal.’

  ‘Be careful,’ says Mum.

  The corridor is empty. The train judders as it flies through the night. How fast is it going? A hundred miles an hour? Two hundred? Herbert doesn’t like it. He whimpers as we cross between carriages; I never like that bit myself. It doesn’t seem right, like walking into no-man’s land, one wrong step and you could be lost forever.

  I walk down to the lounge car. There’s only one man there, sitting reading a book. It seems so odd to see someone without a phone that I stop. He looks up.

  ‘Hallo.’

 
; ‘Hi,’ I say. He’s old, about fifty, with longish grey hair and a beard.

  ‘I like your dog.’ He has an old-fashioned voice, posh and somehow papery.

  ‘He’s called Herbert.’

  ‘A fine name.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I want to go back to our berth but I make myself walk the length of the carriage and then turn back.

  I know that the man is watching me all the way.

  Part the tenth

  Harbinder

  Chapter 44

  ‘We need to talk to Georgia,’ I said. ‘They should have arrived by now. The train gets into Inverness at eight-thirty.’

  ‘Then they’ve got another train to Ullawhatsit,’ said Neil.

  ‘Ullapool.’ I tried Clare’s mobile but there was no answer. It was half-past eleven. She should have arrived at her grandmother’s house by now.

  ‘Do you think that the missing kids have any connection to the case?’ asked Donna. ‘Venetia and Patrick?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ I said. ‘We know that Patrick had a crush on Ella and he’s admitted to visiting her house on the night that she died. We also know that he didn’t like Rick much.’

  We’d put out a Missing Persons alert for Venetia and Patrick. Neil kept saying that they’d run off together but, even if they were in a relationship, what modern teenagers would run away together like some Abba song? There was nothing really — barring a bit of parental snobbery — to stop Venetia and Patrick being together. They were both sixteen, after all, a little older than Georgia.

  ‘There’s nothing to link Georgia to the murders,’ said Donna. She was worried. I could tell because she hadn’t eaten her mid-morning doughnut. It sat, sweating jam gently, on her desk.

  ‘Except her fingerprints were found at the scene,’ I said.

  ‘She was in London when Rick was killed,’ said Neil.

  ‘London’s not that far away,’ I said, more for form’s sake than anything.

  ‘We need to find out about the bloodstain on the photo. Hopefully the lab will have those results soon,’ said Donna. ‘If it’s Ella’s, then Georgia has some explaining to do. She may have been present at the murder even if she didn’t commit the crime.’

  ‘She knows something,’ I said. ‘Did you read the story she wrote?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Donna. ‘It was very bloodthirsty. But teenagers like horror.’

  ‘I was a James Herbert fan myself,’ I said. ‘But I never wrote stuff like that. And there’s something odd about Bryony Hughes and that whole creative writing group.’

  ‘Go and see the other girl,’ said Donna. ‘What’s her name? Natasha White. We just have to hope that Patrick and Venetia turn up. We’re going to increase the priority soon.’

  ‘Venetia’s mum looks the sort who won’t let it rest,’ said Neil.

  ‘We won’t let it rest,’ I said. ‘We’re close. I’m sure of it.’

  Natasha White lived in Steyning, in a pretty Victorian house just outside the main village. She was a pretty girl too, with freckles and the kind of bouncy, curly hair that I always wanted. Her mother Anna, who opened the door, was very similar, although the curls and the freckles were fading a little. Someone was thumping out a piano scale in the background.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Anna. ‘I teach private pupils at weekends.’

  What was it with everyone and their music lessons?

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘We’d just like a word with Natasha.’

  ‘Is it about Venetia?’ said Anna. ‘I was so shocked when Alicia phoned me.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where she could be?’ I asked. Anna had led us into a comfortably messy kitchen where Natasha joined us. Presumably the sitting room was taken up with piano lessons.

  ‘No,’ said Anna. ‘But she’s with Patrick, isn’t she? They’re all sweet on Patrick.’

  ‘Mum!’ said Natasha furiously.

  ‘Well, he’s a very good-looking boy.’

  ‘Mum . . .’

  We sat at the table and Anna pushed breakfast things aside. ‘Sorry. It’s a bit chaotic. Do you need me to stay? It’s just my husband’s taken Fergus, our ten-year-old, to football and I’m halfway through my lesson. Danny can’t keep murdering C flat for ever.’

  ‘It’s not a formal interview,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to stay.’ Was it my imagination or did Natasha look rather relieved?

  When Anna had gone, I said, ‘Do you have any idea where Venetia and Patrick could be, Natasha?’

  ‘No.’ But she averted her eyes. She was casually dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie but she’d put on her mascara and eye-liner.

  ‘Is it true that she’s sweet on Patrick O’Leary?’ asked Neil.

  ‘Yes,’ said Natasha. ‘But it’s not true that we all are. He’s like a brother to me and Georgie. Anyway, Georgie’s got Ty.’

  Did Natasha have anyone, I wondered. Even I’d had a boyfriend at fifteen.

  ‘When did you last see Venetia?’

  ‘At the creative writing class on Monday.’

  ‘Did you know that she said she was staying with you last night?’

  A silence.

  ‘You can tell us,’ said Neil, absent-mindedly wiping crumbs off the table. ‘We won’t get you into trouble.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Natasha. ‘But I just thought she was going to spend the night with Patrick. Like she did a couple weekends ago. When Mr Lewis was killed.’

  We looked at each other. Did Natasha really not see what she was doing in giving us this piece of information? Either Venetia and Patrick could give each other alibis or they were both involved.

  ‘When’s the last you’ve heard from either of them?’

  ‘I got a text from Patrick last night.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  Natasha looked at us with her kohl-ringed eyes. ‘It said, “Hell is empty”.’

  ‘I need to go back to Clare’s house.’

  ‘Why?’ Neil was driving us back to the station, frowning with concentration as he negotiated the weekend traffic. Things were getting serious now. We’d had a call from Donna saying that Patrick’s parents, worried at last, had found searches for flights to Scotland on his computer.

  ‘I’ve just remembered something that I saw in Georgie’s room.’

  Neil didn’t make any further objections; he took the country road to the old factory and the town houses in the middle of the field. I still had Clare’s keys so let myself in while Neil waited in the car. In Georgia’s bedroom I went straight to the pinboard. There was a postcard with two cartoon rabbits holding a pink heart-shaped balloon. I turned it over.

  Just a note to say I love you.

  It was the same writing as the ‘Hell is empty’ notes. The writing from Clare’s diaries.

  Part the eleventh

  Georgia

  Chapter 45

  When I wake up we’re in Scotland. I lean out from my bunk to pull the blind back and I can’t believe how beautiful it is, like something out of a fairy tale: mountains, forests, the occasional sparkle of sea, castles high on cliffs, villages in the lowlands. Once or twice I see deer, grazing amongst purple heather, and when we pass a cove, there are seals sunning themselves on shiny, black rocks. There’s snow on the hills but the sky is the very bluest of blues.

  I must have got some signal in the night because I have about ten messages from Vee, one from Ty and one from Patrick. Vee’s are all variations on ‘where r u. we need 2 talk’. Ty’s says, ‘Night xxx.’ Patrick’s says, ‘Hell is empty.’ I try to call him but the signal has vanished again.

  ‘Georgie,’ says Mum from below. ‘Are you awake?’ Herbert, who is sitting on her bunk, starts to bark.

  ‘Shh,’ says Mum to him. ‘Are we in Scotland?’

  ‘Yes,’ I pull back the blind again. ‘It’s gorgeous. Why didn
’t I remember that?’

  ‘We’ve always come on the plane before,’ says Mum. ‘You don’t see all this. Have you got a phone signal?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Who are you trying to text, Mum?’

  I bet it’s Henry but she just laughs and says, ‘Let’s go and have some breakfast.’

  We have breakfast in the dining car: scrambled eggs, bacon and baked beans. Mum drinks coffee and I have two cartons of orange juice. I look round for the man from last night but don’t see him. Did I imagine him? Was he The Stranger on the Train? R.M. Holland’s ghost? I tell myself not to be ridiculous. It’s one thing to develop your imagination, Miss Hughes says, and another to let it consume you. I remember the night when I heard breathing coming from the empty fields, that terrifying sensation of being followed. Am I going mad? But if I’m not, then maybe there is someone there, someone just out of sight but following our every step. What’s that bit in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner? Like one that on a lonesome road, Doth walk in fear and dread . . . Because he knows a frightful fiend, Doth close behind him tread.

  The nice steward lets Mum get out at Aviemore so Herbert can have a wee. I’m more scared than ever. What if the train leaves without them? What if the man appears again, smiling his strange carnivorous smile? ‘I like your dog,’ he’d said, almost as if he wanted to eat Herbie whole. But all is well. Mum gets back in carrying Herbert who is squirming with excitement. The steward slams the door and we’re off again. We reach Inverness just before nine and have to move quickly to get our connection for Garve, the nearest station to Ullapool. I start to relax slightly. Scotland scrolls past, moors on one side, the sea on the other. Even Herbert watches, entranced. But, when we get to Garve, it doesn’t seem possible that this is where we get off. This isn’t a station, like Victoria — or even Chichester — it’s just a yellow house and a footbridge in the middle of nowhere. But Mum tells me to get out and she passes Herbert down to me. Then she gets her case down. She seems energised and efficient, entirely unlike her English self. Maybe it’s the air. It’s bloody freezing.