I’d love to say I was confident but Helen’s disappearance has left me confused to an even greater degree than I was before.
I have no idea how to prove, or disprove, any theory. If I was home alone, I might be able to search Ollie’s room. I’m not sure what I’d be looking for, but perhaps it would go some way to help dislodge the niggling doubt.
Another person by himself is Ash. He’s standing rigidly a few metres from the hedge, arms behind his back as he watches the officers. For a moment, I think he’ll pull the eyes in the back of his head routine but he doesn’t turn to look at me. Instead, I realise someone else is eyeing him, too. Tina from the chippy – Ash’s ex and, perhaps, only girlfriend – is focused on him. She notices me watching her and turns away, saying something to one of the people near her.
Before I can start deciding anyone else is the killer, the officers call us to attention, saying we’re going to start on the adjacent field. Everyone troops across and lines up, before we begin the slow march back the way we came.
We find more rubbish, more twigs, more nothing. Definitely not Helen or any sign of her. When we arrive back at the car park near the river to discover that the other search parties have found nothing either, the atmosphere starts to become disheartened. Someone from the local café is pouring teas from a large urn into polystyrene cups but the crowd is already split. Some are saying they’re off to the woods to conduct their own search. Others are arguing, saying we should listen to the police because they know what they’re doing. That only brings the expected ‘if they know what they’re doing, then who killed Sarah Lipski?’
For that there is no answer.
Naomi nods towards the dissenting group who are off to the woods, saying she’s going with them. ‘Are you coming?’ she asks.
I feel like I should be doing something more, sharing my story, trying to figure this all out – but I’m not brave enough. No one will believe me because I’m not convinced I believe it myself.
I nod as I follow Naomi towards the other side of the bridge, stopping to take one more look towards the water below. Sarah died there. I died there. And now I can’t help but wonder if poor Helen has drowned somewhere in the waters around this village.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The day comes and goes with no sign of Helen. After ridiculing villagers for always finding something to complain about, for being uppity about chain stores and for being ludicrously insular, I now find myself feeling under attack, too. It feels like this community, this way of life with which I’ve grown up, is under threat. One girl dead a year ago, another missing now – and, unknown to anyone else, someone attacked me as well. This is the type of thing from which a group of people never recover.
I’ve been to the village police station a few times before. Once or twice it was to see my dad, who was hanging around with Jim. Before that, it was for a primary school trip – if it can be called that – when I was six or seven. There were three officers who worked there at the time, though I have no idea now what they all did. Westby and the surrounding villages have never been crime hotspots, not until now anyway.
As a child, it was frightening to be taken down echoing stone stairs into the station’s basement and shown the single jail cell. The bars at the front and freezing walls terrified me then and would probably still do now. The upper floor was more like an office, with a front counter, more desks behind, and then an interview room. I remember being fascinated by the cassette machine built into the wall of the interview room, thinking it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. I guess I was easily pleased at that age.
The station isn’t what it was. As far as I know, the cell is still in the basement but the upper floor has halved in size, with the front desk removed entirely and a false wall inserted. I have no idea what’s on the other side but Jim’s desk was overflowing with papers when I passed it.
A decade after my first visit, I’m sitting in the interview room, eyeing the video camera in the top corner and its blinking red light.
‘Are you all right, Ellie?’ Jim asks.
It’s just me and him in the room and it’s cold. Or perhaps it’s not cold and it’s me. I don’t know any longer. Either way, there are large pools of patchy black and brown damp clinging to the ceiling in both the corners I can see.
‘I’m okay.’
‘Just so that you know, other officers are in Westby interviewing people. They’re at various potential witnesses’ houses, plus we’ve commandeered one of the smaller classrooms at the primary school. The reason I suggested we do this here is because I wanted to make sure anything you said would be recorded.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because, from what I understand, it’s likely you’re one of the final people to have seen Helen.’
So he does know about the party in the woods. Hardly surprising.
I must have a terrible poker face – probably because I’ve never played. He moves swiftly on, as if he knows exactly where I was. ‘I figured you might be more comfortable talking to me than one of the other officers,’ he adds.
‘Okay.’
‘Can you tell me, in your own words, about the last time you saw Helen James.’
In your own words? What is it with police officers?
‘There was a party at the country park between here and Langham,’ I say.
Jim is on the other side of a table, nodding as he writes something on a pad.
‘What sort of party?’
‘There were a bunch of us there to celebrate the end of term – and because it’s been a year since Sarah…’ I stop because I’m muddling my words. ‘Not celebrate. Talk about and remember her. You know…?’
He doesn’t acknowledge what I’ve said, moving on efficiently: ‘How many of you were there?’
‘Around fifty? Maybe more? I’m not sure. A few.’
‘Were they all people you know?’
‘Sort of. People from the college, I suppose. I don’t know all the names but recognised most of the faces. It’s not like I went and talked to everyone.’
‘Who did you talk to?’
‘My friends – Naomi, Robbie, Ben.’
He repeats back what I’ve said along with their last names. He obviously knows the details already. ‘And you saw Helen James at this party?’ he adds.
‘She was there. We didn’t really talk.’
‘What do you mean by “really”?’
I take a second to think: ‘I suppose we didn’t talk at all. Not one to one. Ollie was giving a speech to everyone about Sarah but people were interrupting. Helen stood up and told everyone to shut up.’
Jim writes something else on his pad and looks up. The areas under his eyes are a murky grey and it doesn’t seem as if he can keep them all the way open. I wonder when he last slept. Whenever it is, I can definitely win if that’s what we’re comparing.
‘Did it feel like what she said went down well with everyone?’ he asks.
‘How do you mean?’
‘If people were interrupting Ollie, did they interrupt her? Or shout anything else?’
‘No. She has that effect on people when she wants something.’
‘What effect?’
I find myself swirling my hand, searching for the right words. ‘I don’t know how to put it. She’s a nice person. She told everyone to be quiet and they were. It’s like a respect thing.’
Jim nods but doesn’t write anything down. I’m starting to anticipate the movement of his pen, wondering what he already knows and what he doesn’t. Wondering if he’s writing anything at all. Perhaps he’s scribbling up and down for some reason?
‘To change tack slightly,’ he says, ‘how well did you know Sarah Lipski?’
‘Sarah…?’
Jim doesn’t look up but his pen is pressed to the pad. He’s never once asked me about Sarah. This time last year, it was someone from Langham who interviewed me.
‘She was your brother’s girlfriend…?’
‘I don’t
understand why you’re asking about her now.’
‘Two girls are taken from this village a year apart. One turns up dead in the river and the other’s missing. Don’t you think there could be a connection?’
He’s looking at me now and I feel tiny. This isn’t Uncle Jim, nor is it Mum’s boyfriend. This is Jim the police officer.
‘Sorry,’ I say, stumbling. ‘I only really knew her through Ollie. I didn’t know her before they started going out. After they did, I saw her around the house a few times, plus I was in the car once or twice when he dropped her home and picked her up.’
‘Did you ever have any conversations where it was just you and her?’
‘Not really.’
The pen darts across the pad and then Jim peers up again. ‘Is that yes or no, Ellie?’
‘Both, I suppose. It depends what you count as a conversation. We’d say hello when we saw each other in the village. She borrowed a book off me once and lent me some shoes. We were planning to go shopping one weekend but… well, we never got to it.’
I stop speaking, remembering the conversation in the hallway back at the house where she had excitedly told me about the stores we’d go to together. I’ve never been a big clothes shopper and Naomi’s only ever interested in a handful of places in which she can buy T-shirts, beanies and patterned jeans. The way Sarah explained it sounded fun and I was looking forward to an afternoon out with her. Barely a fortnight later and she was gone.
‘I knew her but I didn’t,’ I say.
‘What about Helen?’ he asks.
It takes me a few seconds to think because it’s hard to define the sort of relationship we had.
‘Sort of the same,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t say we were friends as such – maybe we were – we just knew each other. I liked her and I think she liked me. We’ve been at school together since we were kids. We did a lot of classes together and used to play hockey in the same team a few years ago.’
It’s only after I’ve finished speaking that I realise I’ve used the past tense. I already think of her as gone.
Jim either doesn’t pick up on it or, more likely, keeps it to himself. ‘Did you socialise with her often?’ he asks.
‘Not really.’
‘But you did on Monday night at the country park?’
‘I suppose. We were in the same place and we know the same people.’
‘Did you notice anything untoward about how she was behaving in the woods?’
I rock back in the chair, forcing my brain, desperately trying to think. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I don’t think so.’
Jim taps his pen on the pad. ‘Was she drinking?’
‘I don’t know.’
He looks up, fixing me with an extremely non-uncle-like stare. It feels like a proper inquisition.
‘Some people were,’ I add, before realising that he’s used some policeman mind trick on me.
‘Drugs?’
‘No.’
‘Is that a definite “no”, or an “I don’t know”?’
I bite my lip and remember the man who knocked on my bedroom door a couple of days ago, telling me so politely that I could confide in him if I needed to. That it would be between us and not something he’d automatically share with Mum. I remember Naomi’s wild, wide eyes from when we were dancing, and her energy.
‘I don’t know if there were drugs,’ I say, being careful with each word and hoping he moves on.
He does: ‘Whose idea was it to have a party in the woods on Monday night?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘My friend Naomi called me. She’d texted earlier in the day but I broke my proper phone and the old one doesn’t work as well. I didn’t see the messages until after she’d called.’
Jim sifts through his notes and then flicks back to where he was. ‘This is Naomi Grant, correct?’
‘Right.’
‘What time did she call you?’
‘About eleven.’
‘At night?’
For a moment, I think there’s a hint of a smile creeping around his lips but, if there was, it’s gone instantly.
‘Yes.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘Just that they were going on an adventure.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘Her, her boyfriend, Ben, and my boyfriend, Robbie. We hang around as a foursome a lot.’
‘You left the house and then Naomi drove—’
‘Robbie drove.’
‘… and then Robbie drove you out to the country park, which is where many of your friends were gathering?’
‘Exactly.’
He pauses for a moment, still going through his notes. ‘And there were around fifty people there?’
‘That’s a guess. Something like that. I didn’t go around and talk to everyone. I spent most of the night dancing with Naomi.’
Jim is in the middle of writing a long sentence and finishes with a flourish. When he’s done, he looks up again, smiling slightly this time. ‘Tell me about the party.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘What happened there?’
I snort and shrug, squirming in the seat. It feels like I’m being interrogated by Mum. ‘It was a party. People danced, sang, ate, drank. What do you think?’
‘You’re not going to be in trouble for anything you tell me.’
‘There’s not really anything to tell. I spent most of the night dancing.’
He nods and presses a full stop hard into his pad with his pen.
‘You told me you didn’t talk to Helen much on Monday – but did you see her much?’
I’m rocking back and forth in the chair and the seat is becoming more and more uncomfortable. It has metal legs and a plastic back, like the ones at school that do nothing except create kids with back problems.
‘She was dancing for a while,’ I say, ‘but that’s more or less the only time I saw her. I think she might have waved at Naomi and me.’
‘Was she dancing with anyone in particular?’
‘It wasn’t that sort of thing. Everyone was together in this clearing, so we were all dancing with everyone else. It was mainly girls. Most of the boys were eating and drinking, or sitting around the sides watching.’
He chuckles slightly and, for the first time in a few minutes, it relaxes me. ‘The boys you know aren’t ones for dancing, huh?’
‘I don’t think it’s just the boys I know. I think it’s all boys.’
His smile spreads. ‘Fair enough. Can you remember what Helen was wearing?’
It only takes me a moment: ‘I think it was a green top with a black skirt.’
‘Do you know when she left?’
I shake my head. ‘She was gone by half four.’
‘But you can’t be more precise than that?’
‘I didn’t see her go. I didn’t see many people leave. Naomi and I were still dancing.’
‘That’s a long time to be on your feet…?’
He leaves the question hanging but this time I don’t blurt my way into the silence. There’s little I could add, anyway.
‘When did you leave?’ he asks.
‘Maybe five? Naomi, Ben, Robbie and I were the last ones there. First in, last out.’
He nods. ‘Was Oliver there?’
‘My brother?’
Another nod. ‘Unless you know another Oliver…?’
‘It’s just you called him Ollie before. It kinda threw me.’
Jim says nothing and there’s a long, awkward silence in which he does nothing but stare at me.
‘Why are you asking about Ollie?’ I add.
‘Because I’m trying to compile a list of who was at the party and who wasn’t.’
‘But why him specifically? You could throw any names at me and ask if they were there.’
‘Perhaps I will?’
There’s another silence but neither of us seems ready to break it. Jim starts to tap the pen
on the pad, but he is relaxed in the chair, no longer seeming so tired.
I crack first again: ‘Ollie was at the party.’
‘Did you see him leave?’
More silence. I stare at him and he stares back. It feels like a battle of wills. From the corner of my eye, I can see the light underneath the camera blinking at me, presumably recording everything I’m saying. It feels like I’m stitching my brother up, even though I’m telling the truth.
‘I didn’t see him go,’ I say.
‘But you’re sure Helen and Ollie had both left before half past four…?’
‘I guess.’
He nods and makes a squiggle on his pad, then flips the lid closed. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell me, Ellie?’
I wonder if he’s going to use his superpower mind trick on me to extract the information that could either help him, or have me dragged off to some insane asylum. I bite my lip, thinking about it. If it wasn’t for the camera and the flickering light, perhaps I would tell him that I awoke in the river. I’d tell him that I daydream of a person’s hand on my chest and forehead, dunking me under the water until I stop breathing.
I take a breath, thinking it over.
‘No,’ I whisper.
His chair scrapes backwards and he stands, motioning for the door. ‘That’s that, then,’ he says cheerily. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Ellie. Thank you.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mum is drinking tea in the living room when I get home. Without a word from either of us, she stands, meets me in the middle of the room, and wraps her arms around me. She holds me so tight that it feels like it should hurt. It doesn’t, obviously, because nothing does.
‘I’m so glad you’re safe,’ she says when I pull away. She looks tired, with sagging eyebrows and dark rims around her cheeks, as if exhaustion is a disease that’s catching around the village.
I think about sitting down but I’m not sure I can take an evening of Mum’s sideways glances of concern. She looks at me and thinks I could’ve been Sarah or Helen. She’s right but I already know that and don’t need the added burden from her.
The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel Page 16
