Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Jane Holland

  I look down at the muddy ground beside the stream. This is where I saw her body. And it’s clear the police searched this area thoroughly. I can see the marks of booted feet passing to and fro for the past week, a morass of footprints and bike wheel tracks, the dried ruts leading down to the mushier ground beside the stream itself. How many people have walked through there since I saw her, contaminating any trace of evidence there might have been?

  But then maybe I didn’t see her at all. Maybe the whole thing was a figment of my warped imagination, seeing a dead woman in this exact spot because of the anniversary. Because my head isn’t right. That’s what everyone else thinks, after all. I ought to give it careful consideration, not brush it aside.

  You probably wrote the note yourself and planted it on his windscreen.

  I could actually be mad. Do mad people ever know? Or are they always too far gone by the time it gets to that stage?

  The water is running brightly in the sunshine, under the bridge and into dappled woodlands. The birds are singing now, no longer shrieking. The place is idyllic.

  Tris has followed me. ‘So you saw the body here? Right where I’m standing?’

  I study the place. ‘Yes, about here. I think her hand was almost in the water. As though she was pointing at the stream. But I can’t be one hundred percent sure.’

  ‘Show me,’ he says calmly. ‘Be the dead woman for a minute. Lie down and pose your body exactly the way you remember seeing hers.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, it’s fine. There’s no one here to see you.’

  ‘It feels disrespectful.’

  He locks his gaze with mine. ‘What, disrespectful towards a woman who, according to the police, doesn’t even exist? Look, it’s obvious you brought me down here for a reason, Ellie. I still don’t know what that is. But we’re not going to get any nearer the truth if you keep thinking with your heart instead of your head.’

  Everything he is saying makes sense. It’s time to stop reacting and start engaging. I find the right spot in the morass of footprints beside the stream, then lower myself slowly to the ground, palms and knees squelching in the mud. I’m going to look such a mess after this. Slowly, I rotate my position, letting my hip down first, then my shoulder, trying to remember …

  Tris stands a few feet away, glancing about, his face unreadable. I’m very aware that I may not be able to trust him, this man who is as close to me as any brother. They say it’s the quiet ones you have to watch. Interpreting that literally, I keep an eye on Tris until my shoulders are both flat on the ground, then my head goes back and I’m staring up at the trees and the sky beyond, patches of blue glimpsed between the leafy green canopy of branches.

  It’s a disorientating position. I feel oddly detached, like I’m dead too and watching myself, looking down on my body from above.

  ‘Is that exactly the spot where you saw her?’

  I wriggle backwards another inch or two, moving my legs into what feels like the right position. ‘More or less.’

  I can hear the stream near my head, so noisy, it’s almost deafening. It reminds me of something else I have to do. I stretch one arm above my head as though pointing towards the water, as I remember the dead woman seemed to be doing. The water is so close to my fingers, it feels as though I’m touching it.

  ‘She was pointing to the stream,’ I say. ‘At least, her hand was. I guess the killer deliberately positioned her like that.’

  Even through my clothes the dirt track is chilly and startlingly hard against my back. The woman was left here naked. Exposed and on show. I don’t like to think about that possibility, it makes my skin crawl. I gaze up into sunlit trees, feeling exposed too.

  Tris crouches down, frowning past me. I tilt my head, staring up at him. His profile is framed by greenery, and so close, I can see every inch of his skin, his dark eyes and hair. I look at his mouth, then wish I hadn’t.

  ‘I know how he did it,’ he says abruptly.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Sorry?’

  Tris looks down at me, zero humour in his eyes for once. Again, I feel that shiver of unease and try to repress it. ‘Our killer. I know how he managed to carry the dead body here, then take it away again after you’d gone. All without leaving any footprints for the police to find, and no scent for the dogs.’

  ‘How?’

  He points past my head at the rushing water. ‘He came through the stream.’

  ‘Through the stream?’ I repeat.

  I lean up on my elbow and stare over my shoulder. The water gurgles innocently a few feet behind me, bright in the sunlight.

  ‘Think about it. You leave no tracks if you walk through water.’

  ‘But the depth – ’

  ‘Waders, maybe. Dark clothing or camouflage gear, with thigh-high waders … Yes, I think he carried the body away through the stream after you saw her.’

  I consider the stream, try to imagine the scenario, some man staggering away through the stream in the early morning light, a dead body slung over his shoulder. It makes sense as a quick getaway route for a murderer intent on hiding his victim before the police can arrive. But had he arrived the same way too?

  I had always assumed the woman had died here in the woods, maybe strangled after an argument. Tris is making me see things differently.

  ‘So he killed her somewhere else?’

  ‘It seems the most likely explanation. If he had killed her here, there would have been some sign of a struggle.’

  ‘Crushed plants, footprints in the mud, maybe tracks from something heavy having been dragged through the undergrowth …’

  ‘Exactly. But we know there can’t have been anything like that, because the police combed this area and came back with nothing to report.’

  ‘So?’

  A strand of hair has fallen in my eyes; Tris strokes it away, rather like Denzil did last night, looking down at me. Our faces are only inches apart. Suddenly I’m uncomfortable again, but not for the same reason as before. What made me agree to go out with Denzil? He’s good-looking, and he understands the unholy mess that is me, but there’s no way I find him even half as interesting as Tris.

  ‘So,’ he repeats, not breaking my gaze, ‘it was not an accident that you saw her. The murderer placed the dead body here deliberately. He planned the whole thing like a military operation.’

  I blink, not wanting to face that possibility. It was way too creepy. ‘Let’s say you’re right. Why would anyone do that? If he didn’t kill her here, why go to all the trouble of carrying the body here?’

  ‘Display?’

  ‘An exhibition of his work?’

  ‘And a demonstration of what he can do. Showing off. Like a cat bringing a dead mouse to the back door. See, this is what I’m capable of.’

  I frown, not entirely following his reasoning.

  ‘Then why move the body before the police can find it? Surely if he was showing off, he’d want as many people to see her as possible. Only one witness. That’s a bit sad.’

  ‘You still don’t get it, do you? He was showing off to you, Eleanor. He placed her body here like a display for you to see it because you are his only audience.’ He leans closer, so close we might almost be kissing. I dare not move, staring up at him in a kind of mesmerised shock. ‘You, Eleanor Blackwood, are the only person he wants to see his work. Nobody else.’

  Our eyes meet and lock in the stillness. Behind us the stream rushes on regardless of our conversation, cheerful in the dappled sunlight. My skin has goosepimples, I can feel the tiny hairs prickling all along my arms. I would almost rather discover I was mad than be told someone has targeted me for this sick charade. Someone who knows me and my history. Who can predict my moves so accurately.

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘A little bit, yes,’ he admits. ‘But you have to admit, it’s strange.’

  My heart is beating uncomfortably fast. He almost had me convinced then that I was the one who had inspired a ki
ller.

  I scrabble to my feet, ignoring the hand he holds out to help me. ‘You, my friend, are the one who’s strange.’ I brush the dirt off my palms. ‘So what now?’

  ‘Now we walk down the stream, see exactly where he went after he picked up the body again.’

  I stare. ‘You really believe he came through the water?’

  ‘It’s the only possibility that makes sense. If I were the killer, that’s how I’d do it. Throw any dogs off the scent by staying in the water all the way, or as far as I could.’ He bends and squints up and down the stream, first in one direction and then the other. ‘But which way did he come?’

  I point further into the woods. ‘That way comes down from the main car park for the woods and café. It’s quite a hike uphill, but not so bad coming down. The stream runs beneath the car park. Maybe he had her body in the boot of his car. He parked up near the stream, popped the boot, dragged her out and down the bank …’

  He shakes his head, interrupting. ‘Too public.’

  ‘It was early.’

  ‘Even so, there are still people around in the main car park at that time. Before he got sick, my dad used to walk the dog in that part of the woods some mornings, as early as seven o’clock. And the body was naked, remember? That’s not something you’d miss if you were out walking your dog. A man dragging a naked woman into the stream is hardly a regular event round here.’ He grins. ‘At least, I hope not. Though maybe for the Denzils of this world …’

  ‘Watch it.’

  ‘Sorry.’ His smile grows crooked. ‘True love, is it?’

  He has me off-balance and I don’t like the sensation. ‘Let’s stick to murder, shall we? Not my love life.’

  Tris turns slowly on his heel. ‘Okay, he didn’t come from the car park end of the woods. Or it’s less likely. So he must have come from the village side, from Eastlyn itself.’

  ‘Seems likely.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He stares down at the water, his expression preoccupied. ‘What borders the woods that way?’

  ‘The lower road through the village.’

  ‘Except it’s narrow most of the way. There are no laybys, no passing-places, nowhere to stop a car without arousing attention. Not very promising for someone looking to dump a body.’

  ‘There’s the old water company station before the road bridge,’ I say. ‘It’s gated off and padlocked, but if you pulled your car deep enough into the bushes beside the gate, you wouldn’t be seen from the road.’

  ‘I know where you mean. And there’s a path that leads through the meadow opposite into the back of the woods.’

  ‘That’s the path I take when I go running, except I don’t usually go through the woods anymore. I head uphill instead, and skirt the woods.’

  ‘So a parked car definitely wouldn’t be seen from the road there?’

  ‘Pretty sure,’ I say. ‘Hannah likes to park there sometimes, so she can take a walk in the woods without having to pay the exorbitant charges up in the main car park.’

  ‘So if the killer climbed into the water with her at that point,’ he says, ‘he would be able to walk all the way into the woods under cover. That part of the stream is completely shaded from view by all the trees and bushes.’

  ‘Wait, what about the Path Closed sign? He must have planted that on the upper path to make me come down this way.’

  ‘Good point. So he put the sign up first, maybe came into the wood normally, maybe posing as a jogger, then run back to his car. He could have brought the sign with him.’ Tris frowns. ‘No, that doesn’t make sense. Too easily seen again.’

  I join in with this game. Guessing what our unknown killer might have done. It’s macabre but could be useful. Assuming there was a body in the first place.

  ‘Perhaps he brought the diversion sign into the woods during the night,’ I suggest, ‘or even a few days beforehand, then hid it in the undergrowth. There are dozens of places he could have left it without anyone noticing.’

  Tris nods, looking thoughtful. ‘Yes, good idea. He sets up the diversion sign, jogs back to his car, pulls on the waders, gets the body out of the boot … Then carries her downstream and displays the body here for you to find.’ He looks down at the muddied ground as though seeing the body exactly as I did, then raises his head, scanning the woods around us. ‘Maybe he hides in the bushes further upstream so he can watch your reaction. Then, as soon as you’ve gone, he scoops up the body again and carries it back to his car.’

  Which all suggests it must be someone who knows me and my daily routines. Someone close enough to be able to second-guess my reactions. To correctly assess my mood that morning and be sure I would take the path through the woods, despite my fear.

  I keep coming back to that unnerving thought.

  Someone I know locally may be a killer who wants me to see his handiwork. But who?

  ‘You okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘We should follow the stream down, check exactly where it goes.’

  I look dubiously at the water. ‘Not having any waders to hand, I’d rather not get my trainers wet. But I’m up for walking along the bank, if that’s okay with you.’

  We walk in silence along the bank for a while, watching the busy water rushing over shale and around stones, dazzling with light, flies spinning and dancing in clouds above its surface. There is no one else in this part of the wood, though laughter and shrieks from kids on one of the upper paths drift across through the trees. It’s a lonely spot, perfect for a crime scene.

  ‘No way the killer could be a she, I suppose?’ I ask.

  ‘Carrying a dead body all that way?’

  ‘You seem so certain it’s a man. I’m wondering why, that’s all. It’s not like women never kill each other.’

  ‘Sexism aside, you said her neck was red and swollen, probably from where she’d been strangled. And she’d been stripped naked. Do you think a woman did that? Yes, a woman could strangle another woman, and even strip her too. But to carry a body out here, then take it away again? People are heavy when they’re dead. I know that from having to move dead sheep. Lifting a dead sheep is totally different from trying to shift one that’s still alive.’

  ‘Maybe she used a wheelbarrow.’

  ‘That left no tracks?’

  I say nothing, looking away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says a minute later, watching my face. ‘I’m not trying to cut off possibilities or be sexist. But I don’t see how this could be down to anyone but a man.’

  Which brings me back to my closest friends. There’s at least one person who knew I was going to run this way on that morning, and that’s Tris himself. With a jolt, I remember our exchange of texts beforehand.

  Planning to run through the woods tomorrow. As a salute to my mum.

  Don’t. Not a good idea.

  Chicken.

  But if it was Tris, he would hardly be helping me like this. The thought steadies me. I have to trust someone in this business. Not least because I can’t trust myself.

  We walk for another five minutes, picking a path through increasingly heavy undergrowth. Then the painful wall of brambles and nettles becomes impossible for us.

  Tris looks at me. ‘Come on, this is getting us nowhere.’ He nods me towards an old mossed tree stump. ‘Hop up there and you can jump on my back. I’ll give you a piggyback ride.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We have to get down into the water, it’s the only way to keep tracking the stream back to wherever he came from.’ He grins at my dumbfounded expression. ‘You don’t want to get your feet wet, so I’ll carry you. It’s fine, I’m strong enough.’

  It’s easy to jump up onto his back, but it feels weird to have Tris gripping my legs, and to hold onto his head and shoulders for balance, riding him down the rough, muddy bank like he’s an elephant.

  Tris lurches into the stream at full tilt, stumbling across the uneven rocks. I feel the cool splash of water. He staggers another few steps, and for a
second I think he’s going to fall.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Steadying himself with an effort, Tris laughs. ‘Stop making a fuss, woman. I’m the one that’s soaking here.’

  ‘You’re insane.’

  ‘That makes two of us, then.’ He squeezes my ankle in the silence that follows; a kind of apology for the lame joke. ‘I’d guess we’re about five minutes’ walk from the road. You comfortable enough up there?’

  I don’t answer at first. I’m remembering what he said about the killer carrying the dead woman through the stream, and that only a man would be able to do it. What did he say?

  It’s fine, I’m strong enough.

  ‘Yeah, I’m good.’ I lean forward over his shoulders, shifting awkwardly. ‘Let’s do this.’

  At first the going is fairly easy. Tris stepping from slippery stone to stone, their edges bearded with green weed, or splashing across wet shale in the shallows nearest the bank. It’s warm, perched up here on his shoulders, the sun striking through the trees here where the canopy is thin above us. I listen to his breathing, steady rather than laboured, and am impressed by his strength. I’m not exactly a featherweight.

  We’ve moving against the flow of the current, and the water is growing deeper. I see tiny shoals of fish flicking past us in the shadows. There must be a pool ahead, perhaps around the next bend. Dragonflies skim across the surface of the water, jewelled wings moving so fast they’re a blur.

  It’s really quite beautiful here.

  Round the next bend, Tris comes to an abrupt halt, both of us staring at the unexpected obstacle in our path.

  ‘Shit,’ he mutters. ‘I didn’t think of that.’

  The stream has been fenced off with a wire fence, higher than a man and dipping several feet into the deep-flowing water. An ancient greening sign, tacked onto the wire fence by all four corners at one time but now hanging by one edge, says: PRIVATE PROPERTY. DO NOT ENTER.

  The fence extends onto the bank, though it’s clear that people have climbed over it in the past, treading it down until the fence is bowed. Even so, a man carrying a heavy weight would not find it easy to climb over. And he would have to scale the bank first, and risk leaving prints in the loose soil there.