by Syd Moore
‘Quite.’ Andrew nodded, and looked out over the balcony to the apricot sunset. ‘But we’ve found him out.’
I was feeling more human now. ‘Shall we have a glass of wine? I think it’d steady my nerves.’
Andrew nodded. ‘Here or in the brasserie?’
‘I think I can manage the brasserie. Don’t fancy going outside of the hotel though.’
As I stood up and fetched my bag, a thought hit me. ‘But why should he cut off her head?’
Andrew drew back the doors onto the balcony. ‘Probably to delay her identification as long as possible. Or to obfuscate cause of death. The beheading and the tying up of her body hint at some kind of warped ritual in keeping with her reputation as a witch. And you can see from Eden’s journals, it worked. No one suspected Hunter.’
‘But she had the locket in her hand according to Walker King. That’s how they knew who she was straight away.’
‘Hunter can’t have seen it.’
My bag was heavy. I removed some of the contents to lighten it. ‘So, we’ve solved the mystery. Almost.’
‘It’s got to be Hunter,’ Andrew demurred.
‘Has to be,’ I agreed. ‘But we need more proof.’
‘How are we going to get that?’
‘Hunter killed her and took her head. It was never found. He might have hidden it somewhere in his house.’
‘Well, we don’t know where his house is, or was, do we? It’s probably been demolished and built over.’
As he said it, I realized that though I hadn’t announced it out loud, I knew exactly where it was. ‘It’s Doctor Cook’s,’ I said simply. ‘He might have a different name but it’s the same surgery, I mean the same room, the same house, that I’ve seen in my dreams.’
Andrew shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’ve done all right so far. But,’ he lowered his voice, ‘dreaming about the surgery could be purely symbolic: it’s the place you’re getting treated for your eye. According to you it also happens to be where Sarah’s life changed and ended. But think about it – you’re living through a traumatic time – you see yourself as having a parallel story: a widow with a son, a single mum whose status puts her on the outside of society. You’re empathizing so much with her …’
I interrupted, my voice sounding firm and strong. ‘Andrew, you have to trust me on this. Call it intuition.’
My tone brooked no argument.
‘OK,’ he squeezed my hand again. ‘Let’s say the skull is there. How do you propose we go about finding it?’
I grinned and blew my cheeks out. Sometimes he was so obtuse. ‘We ask him. He might know. Perhaps he’s heard rumours about the place. Every house has a skeleton in its closet. And that place has at least one. I’ve seen it. It’s hanging up in his consulting room.’ I laughed. Andrew didn’t. ‘Look, he must have bones and skulls all over the place. And I doubt he’d mind if we asked to look at them. I’ve got to go and see him when we come back tomorrow. I’ll ask him if he knows anything about it.’
Andrew looked unsure. ‘This doesn’t feel right.’
‘Why would he mind?’
‘Well, it’s a bit of an odd request, isn’t it?’
‘But it was 150 years ago. We’re not accusing him of anything.’
But Andrew wasn’t convinced. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Doctor Cook’s nice and really caring. I doubt that he’d give a toss to be honest.’
‘All right,’ he said, shaking off his unease. ‘I do feel like a drink now. Let’s go down.’
‘Hang on.’ I pulled my phone out and checked it for messages. One from Mum saying she and Alfie were fine.
The phone bleeped. I hadn’t brought my charger and it was just about out of juice.
‘Bring it downstairs.’ Andrew was not good at hiding irritation.
‘No point,’ I said, running my fingers over the buttons. ‘Battery’s going. I’ve just got to text Sharon. I promised her I’d tell her first.’
He opened the door and shifted from foot to foot as I typed in the text message.
‘OK, I’ve sent it. I just wanted her to know as soon as I did. She’s done an awful lot of research for me.’
I popped my phone on the side table and we ambled to the brasserie.
I’d written: ‘It was the doctor!’
Chapter Twenty-Four
I suppose the first thing that alerted me to the fact that things weren’t as they should have been was the call I received from Corinne that Sunday at Duerne Airport.
We had gone through security and were waiting in the bar before we boarded. It was only by chance that I had my phone on at all. I was about to turn it off to save what little there was of the battery; I’d just phoned Mum to speak to Alfie. He had offended yet reassured me with a total lack of concern for my absence, curious only to know if I was bringing him a present. An affirmative answer roused a certain amount of enthusiasm for my return but not enough to sustain his interest in a very short description of my trip. ‘When you coming to get me?’
‘Well,’ I put my best motherly voice on, ‘I’ve got to go to the doctor’s then I’ll be back.’
‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘Don’t go there. Do not!’ Alfie’s voice was insistent.
‘Honey, what’s up? What’s the matter?’
‘You mustn’t, Mummy.’
This was strange. ‘Come on, Alfie, it won’t take long. I’m going to get on an aeroplane now and fly, in the sky, to London then I’ll …’ I gave up speaking when I heard him squeak an abrupt ‘Goodbye’ followed by the clanking of the receiver and then a ‘hello’ from my mum. Kids have no subtlety when they’re bored.
Alfie had apparently been in good spirits all weekend, enjoying his outing to Sunday School (I squirmed) and a visit to his cousin, Thomas. I informed Mum I’d be back early evening. She said her grandson was being an angel and she would be more than happy to hang on to him another night. Apparently Alfie was up for that too so I eagerly accepted – it would leave me free to hang on to Andrew one more night. ‘Oh yes, Sarah, I spoke to Aunty Brenda about the Leigh connection. She’s digging out some old document she thinks she’s got.’
My phone did its irritating ‘nearly out of battery’ bleep so I spent twenty seconds thanking Mum for everything profusely then hung up.
I suggested Andrew come over to my place for the evening as soon as I terminated the call.
He did a kind of ‘um-let-me-see-if-I’ve-got-anything-on’ thing which lasted a millisecond then nodded, on the proviso he could nip back home, freshen up and then come round later. I had no objections. He wanted to make himself nice for me. Sweet.
So when the phoned beeped again I assumed it was my battery. But it was Corinne, a tad out of sorts.
She was phoning from a farm in Danbury on the off chance I was in the Old Town and could pop into Sharon’s to see if she was home.
She’d forgotten that I was in Antwerp with Andrew and cracked a rather un-Corinne-like joke about dirty weekends when I told her. We chuckled over that and she requested to know if we’d consummated the relationship. I wasn’t prepared to go into details while Andrew sat by my side, so I changed the subject and asked her what was up.
‘It’s Aunty May and Uncle Tom’s ruby wedding, yawn, yawn. Me and Shazza went halves on a red vase. She’s got it at her house and she’s not here yet. The party started over an hour ago. I can understand her cutting it fine, it’s no rave, if you know what I mean, but we were meant to meet for Sunday lunch at the King’s Head, up the road. She was definitely up for it when I spoke to her on Friday: she’s got no one on the go at the moment and a couple of Pat’s friends were joining us too. You know how she is. Loves a bit of attention. But she didn’t show and I can’t get through to her on her mobile.’ My phone beeped a warning.
‘She might be in her kitchen,’ I offered hopefully. ‘You know what the signal’s like in the Old Town.’ Privately I imagined Sharon had a big one the night before and was probably still sleeping it off.
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‘Mmm,’ Corinne concurred, though she sounded as un convinced as I was. ‘What time are you back?’
The phone beeped again. Twice this time. ‘Evening-ish. I’ll pop round to her place if you want?’
There was a slight pause at the end of the line. ‘No, don’t worry. Fingers crossed she’ll be here by then.’
‘Well, I’ve got something I want to talk to her about anyway.’
‘Ooh, what’s that? Length and girth?’
‘Stop it, Corinne! No, Sarah Grey stuff. I think I know who did it.’
‘Amazing. Well done. Gonna tell me?’ she asked.
My phone did a triple bleep and turned itself off.
Six hours later the sun sank behind Hadleigh Downs as Andrew’s silver Citroën swept us from the station towards the Old Town.
The slopes of Leigh Hill cantered down to the sea, twinkling in the sunset, as the last fading rays caught the open windows of the villas and cottages that populated its contours. Out in the estuary the sailing boats sailed, the jet-skis whizzed and the faint buzz of the day-trippers sitting outside the pubs drifted up to us through the open car windows.
I directed him to Sharon’s as best I could. When we pulled up by the kerb he asked whether he should hold on to my case.
It would have been a hassle lugging it back home up the hill so I said that would be fab, and gave him a nice, protracted goodbye kiss.
‘I shouldn’t be too long,’ I said, when he broke off for air. ‘I’ll just check in on her then nip to the doctor’s for the prescription. I’ll ask him about Sarah Grey too. See what he has to say or maybe arrange a time when we can both get to talk to him. I know you want to be there too. Anyway I won’t be long. Hopefully, an hour max.’
Andrew glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll give you sixty-five minutes,’ he grinned and blew me a kiss, then drove off.
I was staring at her door as I walked to it without really seeing it. In my head I was going over the sweet nothings Andrew and I had shared on the flight. I didn’t think I could call him ‘boyfriend’. It was too young. Lover sounded too old-fashioned and what we’d started was neither of those things. ‘Bloke’ would have to do for now. On the plane his every touch, no matter how slight or mundane, trailed sparks over my skin. I could still feel the tingles now. It had only been seconds since I left his side yet already I felt a yearning in my stomach for more.
I pressed the bell and must have stood there for a few minutes, lost in my own erotic musings, till it dawned on me nobody was at home.
The front door opened onto the living room and although it was locked, I peeped up at the little window, which had a view into the house. As I peered through the pane my hand froze in mid-air: the place had been completely trashed. Drawers had been pulled out and chucked aside; papers spilt over the floor. The cottage had been ransacked.
Worried now, I crouched down and hollered through the letterbox. ‘Sharon? You there?’
No answer. I remembered she had a back door that opened into the kitchen and raced round to try it.
It was unlocked. Though I was relieved to gain entry, once inside my anxiety escalated.
A pile of broken crockery was spread all over the floor and surfaces. ‘Sharon?’
An eerie silence filled the house. Frowning, I leapt up the stairs, two at a time, and inspected the bedrooms. Though not as bad as downstairs they had a rifled-through look about them.
There was no sign of Sharon.
What the hell was going on?
I went back downstairs and examined the dining area of the living room. On the table were several glasses, bottles of spirits and wine and a couple of overfilled ashtrays. Perhaps she’d had a party that had got out of hand?
That wasn’t out of character. But somehow I think I knew.
I slumped down at the table and tried to concentrate, lit a fag, took a moment to think what to do.
Call her.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.
Dead.
I pulled on my cigarette hard and glanced from side to side, checking the mess, trying to figure out what was going on.
As I leant to flick ash in the ashtray, the edge of a golden picture frame caught my eye, poking from beneath a pile of old photos. I pulled it out and studied it. The photograph was of three women in their thirties, arms draped round each other’s shoulders, caught mid-laugh.
There was a likeness in the redhead on the left of the group: it had to be Sharon’s mum. The one in the middle had Corinne’s nose and easy grace. Probably her mum, Joy. As my eyes rested on the woman on the left, my heart stopped and missed a beat. The slim build was familiar.
There was a resemblance to the vision of the dead woman I had seen in Cook’s garden.
A vibrating ring-tone came from beneath a pile of papers on the carpet beside me. I reached beneath and brought out Sharon’s iPhone. ‘Corinne calling’ were the words on the screen. Underneath the screen was opened into a text message. With an increasing agitation I saw the text. ‘It was the doctor!’
Sent by me.
I scrambled to my feet and hit the answer button.
‘Sharon! For fuck’s sake I’ve been …’
‘It’s me. It’s Sarah,’ I bellowed down the line, frantic now. ‘Corinne, I think I might have messed up …’ I quickly explained the scene that I had found. She was calm at first but when I described the picture and my text, she shouted for Pat.
I was adding things up, leaping to conclusions and getting more alarmed by the second. ‘I was referring to Sarah Greys,’ I told her, ‘when I sent that text. But now I’m wondering if … well, you know what you said about her mum and the accusations …’
A crack on the window stopped my high-speed ramble mid-sentence. As I looked up a pine cone rolled across the living-room floor.
For a moment the world stopped.
I staggered back and dropped the phone.
The next thing I remember is running up the hill.
Night had sucked the dying rays of day behind the hills. The moon was full and wide sailing through the clear sky. Myriad stars shone their ancient light upon the sea. It seemed the very earth of Leigh stirred beneath my feet as I raced to Cook’s home.
A terrible feeling was growing in the pit of my stomach.
History repeats itself, Tobias Fitch said. I crushed a thought that was forming in my head. What if Hunter and Cook were from the same line? Could some weird looping behaviour be surfacing through time?
No, it was crazy.
Sharon was in a pub somewhere. I was being silly. But I was breathless and panting with more than just exertion as I reached the surgery.
The house was cast in darkness now. As I tried the front door I was somewhat relieved to see there were no lights on. Maybe he was out?
I took a few steps back and assessed the situation: the curtains on the upper two floors were closed. No signs of life here. Not in the attic, nor in the ground floor of the surgery.
I hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do, then I found myself dodging round the gravel drive at the side of the house, coming out from the shadows into the back garden.
It was as beautiful at night as it was by day. The cedar tree stood proud in the moonlight, at its roots a shadow moved about. I jogged towards it, hearing the grate of a shovel.
Adjusting to the darkness, I could just make out a figure under the tree, standing up. It was barely discernible in the moonlight but I recognized that familiar bow tie.
‘Hi,’ I said awkwardly. ‘It’s me, Sarah.’
Doctor Cook didn’t make a move immediately, just eyed me and leant on what looked like a spade. Then he threw it down behind him.
‘You said to drop round for a prescription.’ My voice was uncertain.
‘It’s a Sunday, Sarah.’ He took a step towards me.
‘I thought you’d indicated that would be all right.’
‘It’s not strictly the hours I like to keep but as you’re here.’ He p
icked up his pace.
A moan threaded through the night air. It had come from the glasshouse, its door ajar.
The doctor stopped, then sighed and continued on his path towards me.
‘What was that?’ I asked, starting to edge to my right away from him.
‘Nothing. A fox rutting no doubt or some badger.’
The moan came again. It was human, even I could tell that. I edged further towards the cedar so I could get a view of the greenhouse and the source of the sound. I stumbled over a mound of what looked like earth to the side of the bench. ‘What are you doing, Doctor Cook?’
‘Some late night gardening.’ He continued on his path to the house. ‘Clearing up some weeds. I hadn’t reckoned on being disturbed.’
I took a step towards the greenhouse and saw a deep rectangular shadow in the lawn. ‘What are you doing to the tree?’
For a moment Cook paused and put his hands on his hips, hesitating or calculating in the darkness, I couldn’t tell which. ‘The bench needed attention,’ he growled in a tone I’d not heard before. Then, with a heavy dose of contempt he snarled, ‘Even someone with your somewhat impaired cranial capacity can surely see that.’
Quite unexpectedly he turned to the house. ‘Come in to the consulting room and I’ll write you that script.’ Then he disappeared into the shadows.
Paralysed for a moment, I stared into the opening. The atmosphere was pregnant with violence and fear.
In the dimness the white of an arm flopped out the greenhouse door.
I brought myself together and hurried to the figure on the floor.
It was Sharon, her face white and drained. Around the wrist of her arm, I felt the damp ends of rope. One of her silk scarves had been tied round her mouth as a gag. I slipped my hand under her head and undid the knot. Her hair was caked in dried mud and dark blood that poured from a deep gash above her ear. She flitted in and out of consciousness, her eyes half open. ‘He killed her. Tell them,’ she wheezed, her voice barely more than a sigh.
I knelt down and whispered in her ear. ‘It’s Sarah. Hang on in there. I’m going to get you out of here.’
