Chapter Twenty-Five
It feels like the entire village is arranged in two-by-two formation, with one long line stretching far behind me. I’m near the front, Naomi at my side. It’s after ten, almost dusk, and everyone’s holding a candle as we head solemnly along the high street in near-silent reverence. Someone behind is sobbing but I don’t want to turn to see who it is in case the person behind walks into me and creates a chain reaction along the line.
It is eerie to be moving in such silence. The shops on either side of the street are closed and there are no internal bulbs blazing, leaving only our candles and the dying light of the sun to guide us. The vicar leads the line by himself but Mr and Mrs Lipski are directly behind, then it is Ollie alongside Mum. A few of the parish councillors are next, then it’s Naomi and me, with Robbie and Ben somewhere behind with their own families.
The procession continues along the high street and then turns to pass the church, before looping around the green and heading to the river. I have tingles as we cross the bridge and then start to line up along the river. We stand in silence until everyone has filed onto the car park by the bank.
I don’t know how many people are here but it’s definitely in the hundreds and I wonder where all the candles have come from. My back is to the river, which is fine by me. I can still feel the tug of the water.
The vicar whispers something to Mrs Lipski, who nods, though neither of them say anything out loud. Meanwhile, the final few villagers cross the bridge and slot into the mass. Rebecca and her wraith-like Ravens are there, skin pale, hair darker than ever in matching tight buns. Rebecca’s head is bowed and her shoulders are bobbing slightly as she sobs into her hands. It’s all a bit odd and I’m unsure if I’m annoyed or bemused. One of the older men from the village is wearing a suit and offers her a tissue. Rebecca sniffs as she takes it and then dabs at her eyes. Everyone is watching her. Just the way she likes it.
There’s a low wittering as people start to fill the silence. Naomi leans in close to my ear: ‘Where have you been all day?’
‘Around and about.’
‘They cancelled morning classes and laid on counsellors in case anyone wanted to talk. Your mum’s bloke was there, too. It was all a bit over the top. Most of us went and sat on the grass instead, getting rid of our hangovers.’
I’m about to ask her how many students turned up but then the vicar clears his throat loudly, getting everyone’s attention. Mrs Lipski is standing on a box that’s appeared from nowhere, head and shoulders above everyone. Her voice is delicate and quavering, yet the still of the night amplifies it like a bass-heavy speaker.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she says. ‘It’s so touching to see your support.’
As she speaks, I spot Ash standing near to the river, closer to the water than anyone. His back is to the crowd but I have a side-on view, allowing me to see his shadowed face. I shiver again as he stares towards the spot where I awoke two and a half days ago. Almost as if he has eyes in the back of his head, Ash spins and locks onto me. For a moment I’m frozen, colder than ever, but then he turns away, focusing on his shoes. I look towards Mrs Lipski, who is still speaking, but can feel Ash watching me once more.
‘… I know we’ve withdrawn from the community over the past year,’ Mrs Lipski continues, ‘but we have really appreciated the way people have tried to reach out to us. It’s been heartening to see how many of you genuinely cared for and loved Sarah in the way we did.’
She reaches out her hand and, unprompted, Ollie emerges through the crowd and takes it. There’s a gasp so deep that it feels as if everyone has inhaled at the same time.
Mrs Lipski smiles and she releases Ollie’s hand. He turns to face the crowd but is struggling to peer up from ground level.
‘Many of you know Oliver,’ she says. ‘I want you to know that it is my choice to stand alongside him. I’ve heard the same rumours as you – but Oliver and Sarah were in love. It might have been what you call teenage love, it might have been more – but when you love another person, that isn’t a feeling that goes away. In a few months, Oliver will have the chance that Sarah did not. He’ll be going to university with the rest of his life ahead of him and, with all my heart, I wish him well.’
Her voice cracks and Ollie looks up, clasping her hand briefly and then letting her go. She nods in acknowledgement but is determined to continue. Meanwhile, Mr Lipski is brooding. He’s older than his wife, or looks it. He is wearing a suit with a flat cap, watching his wife speak, face blank.
‘I’m tired of the innuendo,’ Mrs Lipski adds. ‘I don’t want to listen to the blame game any longer. Sarah wouldn’t want it and neither do I.’
There’s a chastening silence, filled with the tapping toes and fidgeting discomfort of gossiping busybodies who didn’t expect to be told off. I almost want to punch the air – this has been a year in coming. Sarah’s mother has used the moment most special to her to slap down all those who have spent the past twelve months whispering conspiracies. Mum is standing a little to the side of Ollie, lips tight but eyes beaming with thanks.
‘What about the Hitcher?’
The female voice comes from somewhere near the back of the crowd but it is immediately supported by flurried mutterings. People either genuinely scared, or desperate for something else to gossip about. I’m never sure how cynical I should be.
Mrs Lipski, who has remained so strong, now seems out of her depth. She turns in a semicircle until Uncle Jim steps forward. He helps her down from the box and then stands himself, shushing the assorted murmurs and waiting until he can be heard. He’s so tall to begin with that he’s now a couple of heads taller than anyone, a pillar illuminated by candlelight.
‘Hello,’ he says. Although he still doesn’t have the silent respect Mrs Lipski had, he continues anyway: ‘Thank you all for coming out tonight. Believe me, I do feel the responsibility that whoever attacked Sarah Lipski is still at large. It’s not something I take lightly. It’s been some time but that doesn’t mean it’s something myself or my colleagues in the wider area have forgotten about.’
The whispers are becoming louder around me and it’s clear Jim hasn’t simply lost the audience, he never had them.
He clears his throat loudly and shouts this time: ‘If this so-called Hitcher is out there—’
‘He is!’
I don’t need to turn to know it is Rebecca who is shouting. At her interruption, another three or four people call out to insist they’ve seen this ‘Hitcher’ as well.
‘If this so-called Hitcher is out there – and he poses any sort of danger to the community, then I will of course do all I can to keep people safe. As yet, nobody has been able to give me any concrete directions as to who he might be, where he could be staying, or if he had anything to do with the break-in at the post office.’
‘Rubbish!’
Another voice – male this time – chimes from the back.
Jim is becoming frustrated. Perhaps unwittingly, he rolls his eyes, which is a big mistake as the catcalls begin. People are shouting for him to resign, to ‘do his job’ and more. To counter it, he pushes himself onto tiptoes, getting himself even higher and then starts shouting. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him angry but this is pretty close.
‘It’s not rubbish! I’m here to protect this village and the surrounding area but I can only do that if you trust me as a community. There’s no evidence that this person – this so-called Hitcher – has done anything wrong. That doesn’t mean I’m not looking into it, it simply means I have to prioritise actual crimes.’
Nobody sounds convinced because it isn’t what they want to hear. Couple a break-in to a village institution with a possible mysterious stranger and they want SWAT squads, helicopters, the SAS, MI5 and whoever else to investigate. Having one poor bloke who looks after a handful of villages say he’s not sure what’s going on would be bad enough, even without it being on the anniversary of a murder.
‘Please!’ Jim shouts. ‘If you
see anything, if you have any concerns, come to me. Or call 999 if it’s an emergency. So far, people have spoken to the newspaper before me.’
It’s a naughty rebuke that’ll make him few friends but perhaps it needed to be said. The overwhelming grumbles of the crowd doesn’t make it feel like a good idea.
Jim is about to step down from the platform when a woman emerges through the front of the crowd. She has long red hair and is wearing a dark jacket with her bare legs showing. People clear a path for her and she’s so frantic that she almost trips over an errant leg. She steadies herself but her face is a mess of streaky tears.
‘I’ve not seen my daughter all day,’ she says.
Jim’s barely restrained mask of calm slips with a grimace and a nervous glance up to those who are around him. The last thing he wants at this moment is for something like this to happen in front of everyone.
‘Perhaps we should do this elsewhere, Mrs James?’ he says quietly.
There are tears in her eyes as I realise who the woman is. I don’t know how I missed it – they look so alike.
‘Has anyone seen my daughter, Helen?’ she shouts, turning to the crowd, before looking back to Jim. ‘I assumed she was sleeping in this morning. It’s only when I got back this evening, when I saw I’d had no messages from her, that I realised I’ve not seen her since early yesterday evening. She’s been gone for twenty-four hours at least.’
I turn to Naomi – we know that’s not entirely true, as we saw Helen in the early hours of the morning. Apparently, no one has seen her since then.
When Helen’s mum spots us, she turns to Naomi and me and leaps forward. ‘You’re her friends, aren’t you? Have you seen her? Was she in college?’
I don’t know because I wasn’t there either – but Naomi shakes her head slowly. Mrs James turns back to the crowd, pushing herself onto tiptoes. She shouts to ask if anyone’s seen Helen but is met by a series of bemused looks and head shakes. She looks around hopefully and then her chin begins to wobble, before she covers her face with her hands and dissolves into a throat-bobbing flurry of tears.
IV
Wednesday
Chapter Twenty-Six
It is a cool morning in the countryside, with wispy trails of mist billowing across the fields, engulfing the trees. Dew clings to the grass and the bushes, making it look like the area has been doused by rainfall that hasn’t been seen in weeks.
‘Halt!’
The shout comes from somewhere off to my right and the long line of people stops as one, everybody turning towards the voice. My shoes are sodden from the dew, not that it’s a major ongoing concern. The village has turned out again – this time as an organised search team.
Jim and some of his police colleagues from Langham are at Helen’s house doing whatever it is they do. The other handful of officers has sorted the village volunteers into long lines to pick through the fields and woods by which we are surrounded. It feels as if the entire village has joined in to help the search. Perhaps they have.
‘Continue!’
As the second call comes, we continue to march ahead one steady step at a time. I’m in one of the large fields outside the village, part way towards Langham. The grass is yellowed and crisp, despite the dew. Underneath, the soil is tough and bobbly, with unexpected ridges crusted along the surface. It feels as if everyone already knows what’s happened to Helen given it’s a year since Sarah’s body was discovered in the river. I’ve spent the night wondering what I should do. Three days without sleep now, without food. Has Helen been taken because I survived? Because whoever drowned me saw me walking around and believed they’d bodged the job? If that’s true, what can I do? Tell people I think I was drowned? That I’m actually dead, even though I’m not. It’d be the ramblings of a lunatic.
I can’t escape the guilt that Helen’s gone because I’m here. Perhaps the reason I was given a second chance is because I was meant to stop this by finding out the identity of my attacker. I failed and, by doing so, I’ve allowed this to happen.
‘Halt.’
Everyone stops once more as the call comes from the left this time. A man who lives along the road from me is half a dozen people along the line and he points towards a spot on the ground. One of the uniformed policemen steps forward with an evidence bag and picks up a few threads of cotton that look like they’ve disentangled themselves from a pair of socks. It could be something, could be nothing. Who knows?
‘Continue.’
Naomi is walking next to me, dressed in jeans with a sombre-looking black beanie. It’s not the day for a muppet hat. She’s barely spoken since we assembled at the meeting place this morning. The Ravens are here, too. The trio are walking in a line near the hedge on the far right, wearing matching jeans with wellington boots, ever conscious of who might be watching.
Even I can’t begrudge them being here, though. Everyone knew Helen. She drifted effortlessly between the school castes, friends with people like Naomi and me, civil with the Ravens and their adorers, and offering a flirty smile or two to enchant the computer crowd. She went out with one of our high school’s rugby team last year, too, so even they are accepting and friendly with her. Somehow, among the most entrenched class system ever devised – teenagers at school – she got on with everyone. When the media get here, people will say they don’t understand why anyone would want to hurt her.
They’ll be right, too.
I’m so engrossed in my thoughts that I almost trip over an exposed root. I catch myself just in time to spot something dark in among the grass in front of me. I hold my hand up and there’s an instant ‘halt’ from the nearby officer, which brings the line to a stop.
When the policeman nears me, I point him towards what I’ve seen. I can feel the tension, including from Naomi, wondering if it’s something or nothing. So far, every time we’ve stopped, it’s been nothing. The officer crouches with a bag and reaches into a small clump of overgrown grass. When he pulls his gloved hand away, I gasp. It looks like a soft leather bracelet, the same as the one I found in the river. It matches, it’s just like the one that’s buried in my drawer at home, it’s…
Not a bracelet at all.
The officer twists the small circle of twigs in his hand and then places it into a bag anyway before standing again. ‘Was that it?’ he asks me. He’s not trying to sound accusing or harsh, but it’s hard not to feel that way.
‘Yes,’ I say.
He nods. ‘Continue.’
Everyone does, step by gradual step.
When we reach the edge of the field, the search party stops for a few minutes as the officers consult one another. As far as I can tell, the only things we’ve uncovered are crisp packets, chocolate wrappers, string and twigs. Nobody is talking in anything other than short sentences. Robbie, Ben, Ash and Ollie are all part of the line – all suspects, I suppose, if only in my mind. I really don’t know what I’m doing.
Among the hush there are still whispers about the Hitcher. He’s become the prime suspect among the village, even if there’s no proof he actually exists.
Better to look for a devil without than a devil within.
I know Jim spent part of last night speaking to some of the residents who’d apparently seen the Hitcher, but I don’t know if he got any more from them than what was in the paper. When Mum, Ollie and I left to return home, he was still hanging on and giving the impression that he wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon.
‘It’s my fault.’
Naomi speaks so unexpectedly that I jump. She doesn’t notice, tucking her hands into her armpits and tightening her arms around herself.
‘How is it your fault?’ I ask.
‘I should’ve made a bigger deal when I didn’t see her at college yesterday. We’re in the same classes. I knew she was off.’
‘So was I – so was half the college.’
Naomi shakes her head, unconvinced. ‘We weren’t great friends but I should have said something.’
‘What else
could you have done? The teachers must’ve known she was off.’
‘Have you heard what everyone’s saying about her?’
I shake my head, not sure if I want to hear the theories. I’ve seen how gossip affects people.
‘Her phone’s either off or destroyed,’ Naomi adds. ‘Nobody’s been able to get an answer and no one’s seen her since our party in the woods. They’re saying she left in a car with some of the upper-sixth lads.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t know – that’s just what I heard. Apparently, the police are going to want to talk to us all at some point. They know about the party. The only reason we’ve not been questioned yet is because they’re so busy.’ She stops for breath. ‘Did you see her leave?’
‘No, I didn’t really notice anyone leaving. We were dancing most of the night.’
She nods. ‘I know.’
I wonder how much she actually does know. These rumours are already spreading, so how long will it be before people from the party are saying they saw Helen leave with those upper-sixth lads just because that’s what they’ve heard?
It’s not malicious lies, it’s people wanting to help. If five of their friends say they saw something, it’s natural to want to be included. It’s why everyone’s talking about the Hitcher. One person sees someone they don’t recognise and suddenly everyone is seeing the same person.
It’s why people turned on Ollie.
He’s standing on his own a little away from the hedge, scuffing his shoes into the ground while staring downwards. He’ll feel the eyes on him, people wondering if he’s somehow conned Sarah’s parents, all the while focusing on a new target.
Then a flitting, chilling thought tickles across me. What if it is him? I’ve told myself it’s not but do I truly share the faith of which the vicar spoke? Do I really believe he’s innocent, despite the rumours, despite all that’s happened? Despite the fact he’s my brother?
The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel Page 15
