The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I think about the one I found in the river – in the exact spot where someone tried to drown me. Sarah’s body was also discovered in the water, so perhaps her bracelet came off and ended up there…? Maybe it somehow defied the current and wedged in the silt until I picked it up…?

  That doesn’t explain why I keep having visions of ripping it from the wrist of my attacker.

  Could that person have killed Sarah a year ago, stripped the bracelet from her as some sort of trophy, and then have worn it on the night he or she came after me?

  I’m looking for answers and finding more questions.

  ‘I heard the police spoke to you?’ I say.

  Ollie’s voice brings me back into his room.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Today. I heard Jim talked to you about Helen.’

  ‘He was asking about being in the woods on Monday night.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Just that I saw her. I don’t know anything – I’m not even sure we spoke directly to each other. He was asking if I saw her leave.’

  Ollie’s gaze pierces me. ‘Did you?’

  ‘No – but you were in the woods, too. Didn’t someone talk to you?’

  He’s still looking at me but I can see in his eyes that there’s something he wants to say.

  Something bad.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  He turns away. ‘I just hope someone finds her.’

  ‘What happened, Ollie?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘What did you do?’

  Ollie spins back, fists balled, nostrils flared, ready to shout. It only lasts a second and then the aggression slips from him and there are tears instead. I’m not sure if they’re tears for Sarah, or tears for something else. His Adam’s apple bobs as he pinches the top of his nose and bows his head. ‘Nothing, Ell. I didn’t do anything.’

  I watch him for a moment, knowing I’ve either missed something or that he’s holding something back. I don’t know if I should comfort him or leave him by himself. I’ve seen him cry a few times over the past year but never when it was just the pair of us.

  In the end, I bottle it, crossing the room and placing a hand momentarily on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and then heading to the door. ‘I’m sorry for being in your room. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  He doesn’t reply, so I close the door behind me, leaving him alone to cry.

  Chapter Thirty

  In the past two days, I’ve seen Robbie and Ollie both crying for various reasons. In my disjointed, confused world of suspecting everyone around me, I can’t figure out if it is genuine emotion, or something for my benefit so that I let my guard down.

  One of my earliest memories is throwing a paddy in a shop when I was young because I wanted a pencil case that Mum wouldn’t buy. I was going through a phase of liking pink stuff and there was some sort of fairy princess on the front, with a sparkly pencil inside. Mum said no, so I screamed, shouted and cried, hoping to get my way. Still she said no, so I got louder and then, as I saw her looking around the shop, cringing, she told me to shush and that we’d get it next time if I behaved.

  Tears can be faked and crying does make people do things they might not usually. Weeping holds so much power, both in the emotional escape and in the softening effect on others. I know this and yet I can’t figure out if either Robbie, Ollie or both were faking.

  What sort of person does that make me? That my brother and boyfriend can cry in front of me, yet my prime reaction is suspicion?

  If I do believe them – and neither is responsible for what happened to me – then who is? I open my journal and go through the list:

  Robbie, Naomi, Ben, Ollie, Ash, Hitcher

  Because I can, I cross off Robbie and Ollie, leaving four names. If Naomi knew about Ben and me, she’d be angry – betrayed – but any more than that? I cross her name off, too. That leaves Ben, Ash and a person I’m not even sure exists.

  Ash’s name stands out. I think about going to talk to him, concluding that I might as well. At the absolute least, I could show him the picture of us arguing at Helen’s party – of me pulling away from him – and ask what was going on. He might tell the truth, he might lie – but whatever he says could stir my memory.

  I start to head down the stairs, wondering if he’ll be working at Tape Deck this evening, when the hallway is filled by a fleeting blur of spinning blue lights. I dash quickly upstairs, into the bathroom where the wide, slim window is partly open. I have to stand on tiptoes to be able to see properly but there are three police cars parked outside, each with the lights whirling. From the one stopped closest to the house, two men in uniform clamber from the front seats, with a man in a suit emerging from the back.

  By the time I get to the bottom of the stairs, Mum already has the front door open, even though the doorbell hasn’t sounded. She steps onto the path and I follow. The sky is a mucky grey-blue, a mix of clouds rolling in and dusk approaching. The flashing lights from the police cars spill across the street, with net curtains twitching and faces appearing in windows.

  More police officers have emerged from the other parked cars but they’re standing next to their vehicles, watching as their colleagues approach my mother. I don’t recognise any of them.

  The man in the suit speaks first, introducing himself as DCI Somethingoranother. He shows Mum some sort of ID and then stands with his hands behind his back.

  ‘Is Oliver home, Mrs Parker?’ he asks.

  Mum looks past the DCI towards Jim, whom I hadn’t noticed before. He’s waiting at the side of one of the police cars by a uniformed officer. He is tight-lipped.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mum calls to him.

  ‘I just need to know if Oliver is home,’ the first officer repeats.

  Mum looks past him again. ‘Jim?’

  He walks forward slowly, looking from her to the DCI, offering a ‘told you so’ look to the officer. ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ Jim replies. ‘Is Ollie home?’

  Mum doesn’t need to answer because my brother steps past me onto the path. It looks like he’s spent a few moments getting himself ready, as he’s changed from his vest and shorts into jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with a baseball cap.

  Almost as if he knew this was coming.

  ‘I’m here,’ he says solemnly, continuing past Mum until he’s standing in front of the DCI.

  ‘Oliver Parker?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m arresting you in connection with the disappearance of Helen James…’

  The police officer continues to talk but I hear nothing because Mum is shrieking so loudly. She steps towards Ollie but Jim blocks her, holding his arms around her and pressing her back towards the house. Ollie doesn’t turn, doesn’t say anything, allowing the uniformed officers to lead him towards the police car.

  Mum is crying, fighting against Jim and trying to get around him. She shouts: ‘Tell them you didn’t do it!’ but Ollie doesn’t turn. He ducks to get into the car and the door slams with a solid clunk.

  Moments later, the officers are back inside and the car pulls away in a guff of exhaust fumes, lights no longer spinning. The other two vehicles remain, with officers standing nearby.

  Across the road, faces occupy almost every downstairs window in the houses. As Jim tries to get Mum inside the house, I head slowly to the end of the path, turning to look at our next-door neighbours’ homes. Curtains ruffle, movement flashes – and whoever was watching on either side disappears. Across the road, faces are vanishing, all except one. Four doors across, Rochelle the Raven is standing in her bedroom window, not watching the road, instead tapping away on her phone. Within seconds, everyone will know what’s happened.

  As if sensing me, she looks up and we make eye contact across the road. It is only a fleeting moment but she is emotionless: not smiling, nor gloating, simply recording. She turns and disappears, her job done. Rebecca’s phone will be buzzing already.

  I glance at the poli
ce cars and the remaining officers. None of them say anything, nor make any movement, so I head inside, where Mum and Jim are in the hallway. There’s a gap between them. Mum’s arms are folded and she’s squeezed herself into the space between the kitchen door and the wall. Jim is between me and her, his arms at his side, palms open. When I close the front door, he turns and looks between Mum and me.

  ‘Why?’ Mum stammers.

  Jim shakes his head, still looking between us. The rings around his eyes are so dark that he doesn’t simply look tired, he looks ill. His skin’s pale. Haunted.

  ‘Zoe…’ he says, my mother’s name. She backs away into the kitchen, putting the table between her and him. I follow them, cramping the space with three of us in the enclosed area.

  ‘Why?’ she repeats. She growls. There is red around her eyes, an accusing snarl to her top lip.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he says.

  ‘I asked you why – not who.’

  He shakes his head, ruffling his already well-ruffled hair. ‘You know I can’t talk about things like this away from work.’

  ‘He’s my son.’

  ‘I know, which makes it all the more inappropriate were I to talk to you about things.’

  ‘Do they think he killed her?’

  His tongue is resting on his top lip. ‘There’s new evidence.’

  ‘New? New?! What does that mean?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  Mum flicks the kettle on but it happens so quickly that it seems more of an instinctive act than anything she thought about.

  They stare at each other as if I’m not there. Perhaps I shouldn’t be. The air is crackling.

  ‘Where have they taken him?’ she demands.

  ‘Langham police station.’

  ‘When can I see him?’

  ‘I don’t know if they’ll keep him in. If they do, probably tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I thought you’re supposed to be police yourself.’

  She spits the words with disdain but Jim remains calm. ‘I am, but this is a different jurisdiction. A girl is missing and it’s gone above me. For want of a better phrase, I’m hired help at the moment.’

  The kettle reaches boiling point, fizzing and hissing, then spitting a small spray from the spout before it clicks off. Nobody moves.

  ‘What’s the new evidence?’ Mum asks.

  Jim shakes his head.

  In a flash, she lunges for him, whites of her eyes blazing. ‘He didn’t do anything!’

  Jim has his hands up defensively but Mum has him pressed against the kitchen counter, forearm across his chest, shoving him hard.

  ‘Get him out!’

  He’s trying to push her away while using as little force as he can and I’m worried at what Mum might do. I’ve seen her grieve for my father, seen her struggle to come to terms with Sarah’s death and Ollie’s questioning a year ago – but I’ve never seen such white-hot anger. She has a hand raised, possibly to slap him, possibly for balance, but I don’t wait to find out. I dive forward and yank her arm away and then pull her hard by the shoulder. I don’t release her until she goes limp.

  ‘Mum,’ I say. She’s still staring past me, boring holes into Jim, who’s standing by the kitchen door. I force her to sit on the other side of the table, where she takes a deep breath through her nose. Her eyes haven’t once left Jim.

  ‘You’re supposed to be family,’ she says.

  ‘I’m really sorry.’

  Jim’s phone starts to buzz and he removes it from his pocket, scowling at the screen and pressing a button to make it stop.

  ‘You should probably go,’ I tell Jim, trying to sound sensible as opposed to being mean. It’s ridiculous that, of the three of us, I’m being the grown-up.

  Jim doesn’t move but coughs gently to clear his throat. He glances quickly towards the door twice and fidgets on the spot.

  ‘There’s something else,’ he says. I don’t know if it’s deliberate but the pause feels like a surge of energy. I can feel my mother’s rage and incomprehension boiling volcanically.

  I move until I am standing directly in front of my mother, on the other side of the table, facing Jim. ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘There are officers outside who need to search the house. Someone will escort you upstairs to get a change of clothes and any other essentials, but then you’ll have to leave. You can probably return tomorrow.’

  He lets it hang, which isn’t wise given the state of my mother.

  ‘Where can we go?’ I ask.

  Jim stumbles over his words. ‘I’d let you stay at mine but I have to distance myself for reasons I hope you understand. I didn’t know if—’

  A knocking on the door interrupts him. Jim looks at me and we both know what’s coming. Without another word, he heads along the hall and opens the front door, where the other officers are standing, staring at him earnestly.

  Mum is on her feet so quickly that she sends the kitchen chair spinning across the room. Her voice is low, bridling with controlled, stifled fury. ‘Are you telling me that I need to be escorted around my own house?’

  Jim nods and a female officer steps around him, smiling awkwardly. Mum turns to me, says she’ll sort something out, and heads for the stairs, stomping up them as if she’s trying to crush the very ground beneath her. The officer is two steps behind, still smiling clumsily. What else is there to do?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I’m left in the hallway with Jim as Mum shuffles around upstairs. Neither of us speak, although he mutters something I don’t quite catch to one of the other officers. There’s an eerie, uncomfortable silence, eventually broken by something slamming above. After a second loud bang, Mum bustles downstairs carrying a holdall. The officer trails her, waiting a few paces behind as Mum makes a point of ignoring Jim, before turning to me.

  ‘You all right?’ she asks.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, knowing she’s the one who is really losing it.

  She turns to the woman on the stairs. ‘This officer is going to take you upstairs, okay?’

  ‘I get it, Mum.’

  Perhaps she catches the edge to my voice, perhaps not. I’m not sure she’s listening. For whatever reason, this is a show. She nods and walks me past. The officer lets me by and then follows as I head upstairs. I momentarily pause next to Ollie’s door, wondering what the police will pull from his room when they get the chance. Was there something I missed? He seemed so passive when they arrived for him, as if he knew they were coming. I push into my bedroom, waiting for the officer to stand in the doorway.

  ‘What can I take?’ I ask.

  She’s somewhere in her twenties, tall with farmer’s shoulders. It’s one of the features in the area – there are always a handful of boys and girls in each school year who’ve been brought up working on their parents’ farm. They all share barrel chests and beefy shoulders. For most, that means their life has been mapped out since the day they were born. This young woman has done well to make her escape.

  ‘Whatever you’re going to need for the night,’ she answers softly.

  ‘Only one night?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  I fetch a bag from the bottom of the wardrobe and then open my underwear drawer, reaching to the back and grabbing the bracelet I found in the river. Without taking my hand from the drawer, I bundle it into a pair of knickers and remove both, placing them into the bag. I trail around the rest of the room finding pyjamas, shoes, more layers, jeans and a jacket. Then I go to my bed and remove the journal, holding it up for the officer to see.

  ‘I need to check that,’ she says.

  I think of the names contained within – my list of suspects for who might have drowned me. They might understand what it is, they might not. Either way, it could lead to awkward questions.

  ‘It’s my diary,’ I add.

  She steps forward, hand in mid-air, but I don’t offer it to her.

  ‘There are private things in here. Why would you need to know what’s inside?�
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  We make eye contact and then she drops her arm and nods. I place it in my bag and make for the door.

  ‘Do you need a hairbrush or anything like that?’ she adds.

  For a moment I wonder if she’s having a dig but, after a momentary pause, I conclude she’s being nice. There’s every chance she’s done this before, or gone on some training course. People forget all sorts when they’re rushing.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, before rummaging through my drawers again to find one.

  Back downstairs, Mum is already waiting outside next to the car. Ollie’s is parked on the road but hers is a nearly new Mini that Jim helped her buy a few months ago at auction. Before I can head to the car, Jim stops me while I’m still on the path. He looks close to tears – which is becoming something of a theme for the men I know.

  ‘I’m sorry this is how things have happened, Ellie. I know you’ll look after her.’

  He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently before stepping away. I want to ask him who’s going to look after me – I’m the child here – but his attention is already back on the house.

  ‘Does somebody stay here overnight?’ I ask. ‘Or does someone lock up for us?’

  ‘Someone will be here all night but Zoe gave me a key, too.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I ask.

  It seems an obvious question but when he turns back to me, his eyebrows are raised as if it’s taken him by surprise. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Are you saying Ollie did something to Helen? Is that why you were asking about him earlier?’

  ‘I can’t talk about this, Ellie. You know that.’

  I start to reply and then realise there’s no point. If he could say anything, he’d have told Mum when she was screaming at him.

  At the car, I drop my bag on the back seat and climb into the front. The engine’s already idling and Mum pulls away before I’ve strapped my seatbelt on.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  She doesn’t answer, following the road around, taking two quick turns and then pulling to a stop in a cul de sac. With the engine still running, she sits up straight with renewed focus in her eyes.