Isolated

by M. A. Hunter

  I know she’s right and I appreciate the pep talk, but I don’t know where to begin. ‘How would you tackle the story?’ I ask after a moment. ‘Let’s say she’d only just gone missing in the last day or so and your editor sent you here to see what you could find out. Where would you start?’

  Rachel turns and begins to pace the small floor space in the kitchen – certainly not the most conducive of places for creative thought. ‘I suppose I would try and rule out the least likely possibilities first. Ultimately, there are only two options for what actually happened: either she left the base or she didn’t. Unfortunately, the routes go in opposite directions so of the two, which is most likely?’

  ‘The police scoured those woods and didn’t find a body, so the most logical conclusion is that she escaped somehow.’

  ‘Right, I agree. Remind me, what did Natalie say about her before she jumped?

  You need to find her. Find Sally. Tell her I’m sorry.

  ‘She told me to find Sally and apologise.’

  ‘So, logically that would suggest Natalie still believed Sally to be alive, right?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not necessarily. The apology could have been figurative. She might have meant for me to find Sally’s body and lay her to rest. And given what I found in her room at the hostel, my gut is screaming that something bad happened to Sally that night.’

  ‘How old were Sally’s friends?’

  I open the draft email in my phone and consult my notes. ‘Louise Renner, Jane Constantine and Sally Curtis were all fourteen, and Natalie was thirteen. They were all in the same class, but Natalie was four months younger than the other three.’

  ‘How many fourteen-year-old killers are there?’

  ‘Does it matter? There’s been at least one, so we can’t rule them out as suspects just because of their age.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Rachel concedes. ‘But if they did kill her in those woods, what happened to the body? It’s one thing to kill, but quite another to dispose of a body. Burial is the easiest option, but it would have taken them hours to dig a hole and bury the body, and police dogs would have picked up on her scent if that were the case. What did the girls say they were doing in the woods?’

  ‘Playing truth or dare.’

  ‘In the middle of the night, in some dark woods? I don’t believe that for a second. Come on, Emma, don’t ignore what’s right in front of your nose.’

  She raises her eyebrows but I’m not prepared to accept that Sally’s disappearance had anything to do with incantations.

  ‘With the exception of Natalie’s room, I’ve seen nothing to suggest Sally or the others were involved in witchcraft. For all we know, Natalie took up the religion years later… Maybe to try and find closure for whatever has haunted her for so long.’

  ‘Okay, let’s put that to one side for a moment. What did the girls claim had happened to Sally?’

  ‘They said she just ran off during this game.’

  Rachel snaps her fingers. ‘Then that is probably where I would start with the investigation, to be honest. In order to determine whether Sally left the base or remained there, you need to understand exactly what those girls were doing in those woods and why Sally ran off in the first place. What more do we know about Sally’s home life?’

  ‘I didn’t get the chance to ask Diane why she was so adamant that Sally must have run away and I’m not sure she’d be willing to say if asked directly. Maybe I can speak to Cheryl again and see if she can shed any light on matters.’

  ‘Good, yes, you do that, and see what else you can find out about life on the base. Do you have contact details for the other girls… this Louise and Jane you mentioned?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, but again, I can ask Cheryl. What are you thinking?’

  Rachel has moved through to the hallway and laid her suitcase down flat. She lifts the lid, pulls out her laptop, switches it on and carries it back through to the kitchen. ‘Fifteen years is a long time. There are plenty of things I wouldn’t have dared admit to my parents when I was their age, but as yesterday has shown, I’m prepared to tell them almost anything now. Maybe Louise and Jane will be more open to admitting what the four of them were doing in the woods.’

  I jot the note down.

  ‘Stop me if I’m taking too much control,’ Rachel says. ‘My editor tells me I do that sometimes.’

  To be honest, I’m just grateful for the help. ‘Nope, I appreciate your thought processes. I’m not sure how easy it will be to speak to other people who were on the base at the time though. That Colonel Havvard was quite an imposing presence, and from the way Cheryl and Diane quietened when he caught us in the pub, I sense it’s still quite a closed community. I’m not sure how well our digging will go down.’

  The memory of the atmosphere in that small pub triggers another flashback. ‘The barman,’ I suddenly recall, ‘right before I left, he said something about Sally not being the first girl to go missing from the army base.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  I try to recall his exact words, but they’re lost. ‘He said something about not trusting the soldiers, or that suffering with PTSD could cause them to snap, or something. I’m not sure, but he definitely said Sally wasn’t the first girl to go missing. Can you have a search and see what you can find?’

  Rachel is already hammering at the keys of the laptop and scrolls through article after article referencing Sally Curtis.

  ‘Can you filter the results to show only hits before Sally’s disappearance in 2005?’ I ask as I lean over Rachel’s shoulder to look at the screen.

  Rachel applies the filter, and the first hit practically leaps from the page:

  MISSING MARGARET LOCATED IN DENMARK

  Rachel clicks on the link and a story from a local Dorset newspaper appears, bearing a picture of a spectacle-wearing teenager with a mop of blonde curls, squinting at the camera. She’s wearing a Manchester United football shirt and jeans, and the bright sky in the background suggests the image was snapped somewhere abroad.

  According to the article, Margaret Kilpatrick, aged fifteen, had been missing from home for nearly three weeks, before a postcard mailed from a fishing village near Copenhagen had arrived at the home of her father and stepmother. The postcard revealed that she had left because she did not like her stepmother and would not be returning to the UK. The card said she was enrolling at a nunnery, where she would complete her education before dedicating her life to God. The family – living on the army base near Bovington – had been relieved, and not surprised by their daughter’s choice, as she had often spoken about a life of service after school. The police in Denmark had confirmed that they had seen Margaret and that they would leave it up to the UK authorities to determine whether extradition would be required.

  ‘Is there anything else about Margaret Kilpatrick later on?’ I ask, something stirring in the back of my mind, but unable to quite glimpse what.

  ‘Nothing obvious,’ Rachel confirms. ‘I don’t imagine Danish nuns are allowed to have Facebook accounts, but I can do a search if you want?’

  My mind won’t settle and I start pacing. ‘Who on earth runs away from home to join a convent?’ I say aloud.

  ‘Maybe she heard God’s call?’

  I frown at Rachel’s attempt to lighten the mood.

  ‘And at such a young age too,’ I continue. ‘I don’t know about you, but I had no idea what I wanted to do with the rest of my life when I was fifteen. It takes some faith to decide to commit the rest of your life to religious orders.’

  ‘You’re assuming she stayed a nun. She might have left the convent, for all we know, and settled down with a Danish pig farmer.’

  I scowl at the reference and she quickly apologises.

  ‘Did either Cheryl or Diane mention Margaret Kilpatrick?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Well then, the two situations are probably unrelated. Sally hasn’t been seen since, but it says Margaret sent a postcard from the conven
t and that local police were able to verify she was there. Besides, Margaret escaped the base years before Sally disappeared, so the chances are the two girls didn’t even know one another.’

  I hear the barman’s words in my head again: them soldiers know a lot more than they’re letting on.

  The article doesn’t specify how Margaret left the base, but I suppose it is possible Sally would have been aware of this story, and maybe had planned a similar escape. It would certainly explain why Diane was so prepared to cling on to the theory that her daughter simply ran away from home. What it doesn’t explain is why Natalie was so keen for me to pass on her apology.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Rachel says, running to the front door and grabbing her coat. ‘All I ask is that you keep an open mind.’

  I don’t know where I was expecting Rachel to drive us to, but a cosy-looking cottage on the outskirts of Burley in Hampshire’s New Forest probably wasn’t it. On what is a seasonally mild day, the cottage resembles something you might find on a postcard – quintessentially British, and were it not for the festive time of year, ordinarily I would have expected to see the garden overgrown with daisies and buttercups. Instead, we find a recently mown lawn, a small rockery and fountain in one corner, and two beautifully decorated fern trees either side of the entrance.

  I had assumed witches didn’t celebrate Christmas and as Rachel parks up, I’m wondering what other gothic clichés and suppositions will be dispelled today.

  ‘What’s with the face?’ Rachel asks, as she kills the engine.

  I catch a glimpse of my frown in the side mirror. ‘Is this really it?’

  Rachel stares out at the cottage. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? You can’t see it from the main road, on account of all the trees surrounding it, but it’s the kind of place I always pictured you retiring to one day. I could just imagine Jack chopping logs for the fire, while you rummage in the beehives making honey.’

  She laughs hysterically as I glare at her. ‘For the hundredth time, there is nothing going on between me and Jack, okay? We’re just friends.’

  Her grin widens. ‘Yeah, yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that. But if you were to ask me—’

  ‘Which I’m not,’ I interrupt.

  ‘But if you were to ask me, I’d say he fancies the pants off you, and if you don’t make a move soon, you’ll be permanently stuck in the friendzone.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d want anything more than that?’

  She fires a sardonic look. ‘Oh pur-lease, it’s written all over your face whenever you catch a whiff of his cologne. It’s okay to admit that you fancy him, Emma. He’s cute – in a goofy kind of way – but the two of you would make a sweet couple.’ She holds her hands up in mock surrender, as I glare harder at her, feeling the heat rising to my cheeks. ‘I’m just saying, that’s all. You like him. He likes you. What are you waiting for?’

  I know what she’s trying to do. Her love life has gone up in smoke and so she’s hoping to temporarily live vicariously through mine. I don’t want to discourage her if it’s helping keep her mind off her breakup with Daniella and the fallout with her parents, but I hate being the focus of her attention.

  ‘If you want a real challenge,’ I muse, ‘you should try setting up Maddie with someone.’

  Rachel rolls her eyes. I do find it frustrating that my best friend and agent-confidante don’t get on. They’re both wonderfully caring people and both have been so supportive of my writing journey, but they can barely stand to be in the same room together and I’ve never really understood why.

  ‘You should give her a break,’ I reason. ‘She’s going through a bit of a bad time at the moment. Seeing Natalie jump from the roof stirred up old memories of her own son who died by suicide while at university. If anyone could do with cheering up, it’s Maddie.’

  ‘But I don’t love Maddie like I love you, and besides, I don’t know who she’s interested in.’

  ‘Wait, you think Maddie’s gay?’

  It’s Rachel’s turn to frown. ‘How would I know?’

  I shake my head. ‘It was just the way you said… Oh, never mind, forget I said anything. I take it you haven’t heard any more from Daniella?’

  The drop of her head answers the question.

  ‘Oh well, not to worry. Maybe you’ll grow up to be an elderly spinster like me. Hey, maybe we should put an offer in on this place in preparation. We could move in, grow old, get some cats and knit.’

  Rachel rolls her eyes again but a small smile breaks through the gloom. ‘Fine! If you don’t want to admit your attraction to Jack, who am I to judge? Shall we go in?’

  My hand is actually trembling as it reaches for the door handle, as my mind swiftly returns to the present and the real reason we’ve come here. I wouldn’t have said I fear the occult, but I guess I’m definitely wary of forces I don’t understand… and maybe it’s the simple brainwashing that we’ve all endured down the years that instantly makes us recoil at talk of witchcraft and paganism. As a species, we naturally fear what we don’t understand and tend to act defensively, but who’s to say whether one belief system is more correct than any other?

  Rachel certainly doesn’t appear to be nervous and so I suppose I can take some comfort from that. She approaches the front door with abandon and pulls the cord of the rusty bell that hangs outside. It chimes untunefully, and a moment later the sound of a heavy lock being twisted is followed by the opening of the door. For a split second, I picture a craggy old woman with green skin, warts on the end of her pointy nose, and a cone-shaped black hat, but the woman who greets us has none of those things.

  ‘Rachel!’ she declares excitedly, delicately placing a hand on each arm and pecking each of Rachel’s cheeks as if they are models catching up in Paris or Milan or somewhere. She must be in her late fifties; her closely cropped hair is a light grey colour and complemented by the pastel shades of her peach-coloured jumper and white cotton trousers.

  ‘Hi, Imogen. Thanks so much for agreeing to see us at such short notice.’

  ‘That’s okay. I didn’t have much on this morning anyway, and my tealeaves did suggest an important visitor would be coming my way this week. Please do come in, both of you.’

  She disappears into the cottage followed by Rachel. I close the door once inside. The smell of freshly cut flowers and herbs hits me instantly, and it reminds me of one of those high-street shops that sell perfumed soaps. The mixture of fragrances is quite overpowering and I have to pause to steady my breathing before continuing along the hallway and into a large living space. The room is so bright, aided by a large window in the middle of the ceiling. Imogen is across the room and closing the door on what looks like a cross between a conservatory and a greenhouse.

  ‘I’m sorry about the smell,’ she offers, turning back to face us both. ‘My nostrils have become accustomed to it after all these years but I know it can be a bit toxic for others. It should die down in a moment or so, with the doors closed.’

  ‘Imogen is a botanist,’ Rachel explains, ‘specialising in rare flowers with mystic properties. Would that be a fair description, Imogen?’

  Imogen smiles. ‘That’s a kinder way to explain what I do than I’m used to, but yes, it’s a close enough approximation. Please do sit, both of you. Can I fix you some tea?’

  ‘Tea would be lovely, thank you,’ Rachel replies for both of us, ushering me over to the two-seat sofa when Imogen has left the room.

  ‘What are we doing here, Rachel?’ I ask, as I perch on the edge of the sofa.

  ‘Imogen is one of the world’s leading authorities on the rejuvenating powers of plants and herbs. She has hundreds of different species in her laboratory there, as well as in her garden, and she studies their physiology, ecology, genetics and structure. She regularly publishes articles online about what she’s discovered.’

  ‘So she’s like one of those traditional Chinese medicine specialists who would prescribe root extract for backache, and that kind of thing?’

&n
bsp; Rachel tilts her head. ‘Not exactly, but I suppose your analogy isn’t a million miles away. She doesn’t prescribe anything to anyone, rather she experiments with different species of plants to better understand how they can benefit other species, whether that’s humans, animals or other plants.’

  ‘I thought you said we were coming to meet a witch?’

  ‘Not exactly. Listen, as well as being this leading authority, Imogen is also a practising Wiccan – you know, like that book Natalie left in the box for you?’

  ‘The tea won’t be too long,’ Imogen says, returning to the room, and sitting across from us in an armchair. ‘I must say it is a great honour to have the famous Emma Hunter in my house. I came across your book at a local fete and couldn’t put it down once I started reading it.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say,’ I reply, averting my eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Imogen says quickly, ‘I didn’t mean to make you blush, Emma. I’m a firm believer in expressing positivity whenever possible; there’s far too much negativity in the world at the moment, so I send out positive vibes from my tiny corner of the world, and hope to brighten some of the gloom.’

  She pauses until I return her stare to show that my minor embarrassment has passed.

  ‘How exactly can I help the two of you today?’ she starts again, this time looking at both Rachel and me.

  ‘We wondered if you’d mind telling us a little more about Wicca and what it means to be considered a Wiccan witch,’ Rachel replies.

  Imogen smiles and stands. ‘I’d be happy to. I’ll just fetch the tea and then we can begin.’ She heads out of the room, returning less than a minute later with three transparent glass cups and saucers with a yellowy broth in them.