by Jane Holland
I tease him. ‘No one?’
His smile is delicious and slow-burning. ‘Well, maybe one person.’
Again I have trouble breathing, and force myself to stay calm. But I know my cheeks are probably flushed, my eyes bright with desire. This is crazy. He’s high on my list of suspects. But I can’t help being attracted to him. To pretend I don’t have the serious hots for this man would be worse than crazy. It would be total self-delusion.
‘Where is Connor, by the way?’
‘I expect he went back to the farm.’ Tris checks his phone for messages. The screen is blank. ‘He’ll get in touch if he needs me.’
I look across to where DI Powell is giving his outdoor statement to the press. It’s impossible not to feel intimidated by the flash of cameras, the throng of journalists pushing and shouting questions at the inspector. The reporters were being held back before the service, cordoned off at the top of the hill by a police line, out of respect for those coming to mourn Sarah McGellan. Now though the street outside Eastlyn Church is packed with cars and vans, some with famous logos on the side and satellite dishes on top. It’s not only local newspapers that are taking an interest in this murder hunt, but national television companies too. The story is starting to spread beyond Cornwall.
I look away, feeling sick. When will these hordes of journalists find my address and catch up with me? I can’t seem to shake those memories from my childhood of journalists hanging round the primary school gate for weeks afterwards, cameras stuck in my face at the funeral, our phone forever ringing with offers of a newspaper exclusive. My father turned them all down, of course. ‘Vultures,’ he would say, slamming down the phone. But now, with the state of the farm to consider, and the way he’s been drinking, he might be tempted to sell his story. For what it’s worth, that is, eighteen years after the event.
The inspector finishes his statement to the press. After their final questions, most of the journalists pack up and shuffle away, photographers carrying equipment back to their vans. DI Powell takes off his dark sunglasses, coming towards us as though he too has been waiting to speak to us.
‘Eleanor,’ he says, though I note how his gaze flicks sideways to Tris. ‘A moving service, I thought. Especially when the kids read out that poem.’
I wonder again about the night Tris was kept in for questioning. We’ve never discussed it, but I guess it’s not an experience Tris is likely to have forgotten.
‘Sarah McGellan was obviously very well-liked and respected,’ the inspector adds, ‘especially in the Cornish surfing community. Her family are devastated.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ I say.
DI Powell pockets his sunglasses, regarding me steadily. ‘And how are you, Eleanor?’
‘She wants to know if you’re any nearer catching the man who did this,’ Tris asks before I can open my mouth.
‘Now, Mr Taylor, I know you’re upset about the length of time my officers took to question you, but you have to be reasonable. This is a very serious murder enquiry. I can’t discuss the particulars of any ongoing investigations.’
DI Powell does not look fazed by this sudden attack. I guess he is used to dealing with difficult members of the public. Including former detainees.
But Tris is not satisfied. ‘What about Denzil?’ he asks, pressing the inspector.
‘I’m personally satisfied that Denzil Tremain has no connection with the murder of Sarah McGellan.’
‘Ditto,’ I say.
‘But he must have known her.’ Tris surprises me by persisting with his attack. ‘Denzil knows all the local surfers. He spends most of his time on the coast, on the beaches or in the clubs. I expect he knew her intimately. Sarah McGellan was a surf instructor, after all.’ He pauses significantly. ‘And his father’s always in prison.’
‘We had no reason to hold Mr Tremain any longer.’
‘So do you plan to make any other arrests?’ Tris demands loudly. There are still mourners talking quietly in a group by the church door. Heads are beginning to turn. ‘I don’t like the idea that Eleanor could be at risk, that whoever murdered Sarah McGellan is still wandering about free.’
‘We are currently following various lines of inquiry. None of them connected to Mr Tremain. I can understand your concern, Mr Taylor. But there’s really no need to worry.’ The inspector manages a thin smile for my benefit, though I can see he’s annoyed. ‘I have officers out there right now, Eleanor, making door-to-door enquiries. As soon as we know anything new, we’ll be in touch.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, and squeeze Tris’s hand, hoping he gets the message that I want him to leave it alone now. ‘I look forward to it. You’ve been very helpful.’
Reverend Clemo walks slowly past with several elderly villagers, their heads down, talking to him earnestly. But he stops when he sees the inspector, stiffening a little as though he had not expected to see him there.
‘Excuse me, ladies,’ he says to the parishioners, and waits patiently for them to walk on before he turns and nods to the inspector. ‘Detective Inspector Powell,’ he says in welcome, using that authoritative church voice again. ‘A sad day.’
Powell steps forward to shake the vicar’s hand, holding his grip just a second longer than you’d expect. Like they’re both members of the local branch of the Masons.
‘Indeed, Reverend,’ Powell agrees, using his police voice in return. Brisk and incisive. ‘I thought the service was very moving though. And useful for the community. Good of you and the parish team to put it together at such short notice.’
‘Not all, not at all. My pleasure, inspector.’ Clemo pauses, looking first at me, then at Tris. His smile is unconvincing. I get the impression he would prefer not to acknowledge us at all. ‘Well, I’m glad you could all come. And what a glorious day it’s turning out to be.’ His long robes flap about his ankles, right on cue. ‘Apart from this infernal wind.’
‘Maybe we could have a word while I’m in the village, sir,’ the inspector suggests, smiling.
‘Ah, not today. I do apologise. Maybe next week sometime?’
DI Powell raises his brows. It’s clear he’s not used to having his offers of a ‘word’ rejected. ‘No police interviews on the Sabbath, Reverend?’ he enquires.
‘Nothing so dogmatic, inspector. I simply need to offer some assistance to my wife for tomorrow’s garden party at the vicarage. An annual event, Detective Inspector, to mark the start of the summer season. Stalls with refreshments and bric-a-brac and church souvenirs. You know the sort of thing, I’m sure. But it does seem to require rather a lot of … ’ The vicar waves his hand vaguely, not finishing. ‘Well, if you would excuse me. Very good to see you all.’
DI Powell turns to watch Reverend Clemo’s departing back, his expression speculative. Again, I wonder why the vicar seems to dislike me so much. It can’t simply be because I turned him away from the house when he started getting too religious on me the other week. That must happen to him all the time. No, it’s more likely that, in common with the older and more conservative residents of the village, Reverend Clemo believes I’m to blame for the things that have happened round here lately. Like I’m a magnet for evil.
Which could be true, I consider drily, given my history to date.
‘Eleanor, on second thoughts, I would like to talk to you again,’ Powell says, turning his attention back to me. He glances at Tris. ‘Would you excuse us for a minute?’
I nod to him, and Tris sighs, but turns away, looking resigned. ‘I’ll wait for you outside the gate,’ he says over his shoulder.
‘See you right there,’ I agree.
Once we are alone, DI Powell studies me thoughtfully. ‘I think bringing you in again for another chat could be very productive, Eleanor.’ A few strands of silvering hair are blown into his eyes by a gust of wind; he flicks them back into place with an impatient hand. ‘I don’t want to alarm you unduly, but you do appear to be the lynchpin of this investigation. Which makes me wonder if there’s something we
failed to uncover in our earlier interviews. Some small detail which may seem insignificant to you, but which could provide my team with a breakthrough. I often find it’s the smallest details that make the biggest difference when you’re trying to piece together a puzzle like this.’
‘So why the change of heart? You seemed to think before that I couldn’t help you any further.’
‘This anklet … I thought it was a message at first. A warning, perhaps. Or a boast. Like our killer is saying to you, Look, I can take your things and dress my victims up in them.’ DI Powell pauses, frowning in concentration as he continues to pursue that idea. ‘Or maybe he’s deliberately trying to make his victims look more like you. As though he wants to turn them into a new version of you by stripping them naked and making them wear something he’s actually seen you wearing.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I grimace. ‘Oh my God, don’t. That’s too creepy for words.’
He looks round at me, startled, as though he has only just realised he is talking so frankly to another possible murder victim. ‘Sorry, so sorry. Please ignore me, Eleanor. That was very wrong of me. I was thinking out loud.’
‘Okay, I’ll try to blank out that whole mental image,’ I say, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘But now you’re not sure about the significance of the anklet?’
‘Well,’ he says more cautiously, ‘it just occurred to me that it may have been a souvenir. Rather than a message.’
I’m taken aback. ‘A souvenir? Of what?’
‘That depends on his mindset, and also the degree to which he is close to you. It could be a souvenir of having spoken to you in person, or maybe having danced with you the night your anklet went missing. Right now it’s hard to be definite about anything, the forensic evidence is so thin. That’s why I’d like another opportunity to sit down and talk to you at length.’
‘You said, victims. Plural. So you believe me now, about the other woman I saw in the woods?’
He shrugs. ‘I’m keeping my options open.’
‘If I’m right though, does that make me his next target?’
‘From what we know so far, there’s a good chance Sarah McGellan was picked out at random. She was unlucky. Which would indicate that although you should continue being careful and making sure someone knows where you are at all times, you probably aren’t in any immediate danger. But I can put an officer outside your door at night, if you feel unsafe – ’
DI Powell is interrupted by an angry shout from the church gate.
It’s Denzil.
He looks wild, his tawny hair dishevelled. He’s wearing an orange surfing vest with a blue wave design, his powerful arms and shoulders covered in sprawling tattoos. He launches towards me, stumbling as though he’s been drinking, his eyes fixed on my face.
‘Ellie, I need to talk to you.’
Denzil checks momentarily at the sight of the inspector, then keeps walking as though propelled by the strength of his emotions, the anger in his whole body deepening with every step.
‘Was it you, Ellie?’ he demands, staring at me. ‘Did you grass me up to the filth? Do you really think I’m a murderer?’
‘Denzil, please,’ I say urgently, and he stops in front of us, his face tense, hands swinging loose at his sides like he’s longing to do violence with them. ‘This isn’t helping.’
DI Powell is on his mobile, a step away, his level gaze on Denzil. It’s obvious what’s going to happen. At least the journalists seem to have gone. That would have been a nightmare come true, to have the media swarming all over this confrontation.
‘Go home, Denzil,’ I plead with him. ‘Go home and sober up, please. The police don’t think it was you either. You don’t need to do this.’
‘But who gave them my name?’ He glares at Tris, who’s suddenly appeared out of nowhere, standing behind me as though ready to whisk me away at the first hint of violence. ‘Was it you, Taylor? I know you can’t stand me, it’s in your face. But it’s not my fault she prefers me.’
Tris narrows his eyes but says nothing.
DI Powell puts a hand on Denzil’s arm. ‘Why don’t you come with me, sit in my car for a few minutes? We can talk.’
Denzil gives a roar and pushes him away. ‘Get lost, copper.’
‘Calm down,’ I tell him urgently. ‘You’re going to get yourself arrested again.’
Suddenly Denzil turns on me, flushed with anger and breathing hard, and I crouch, ready to defend myself. He’s going to be surprised if he takes me on, I think.
‘As for you, Eleanor Blackwood – ’
Denzil gets no further. Tris steps in, trips him up with one neat move, then pushes him to the ground, twisting one of his arms behind his back, pressing a knee into the small of his back. End of situation.
I straighten, impressed. It is exactly the move I would have used myself if Denzil had laid a finger on me.
‘Give it up, Denzil,’ Tris tells him, then steps back as a police officer comes running up the path. ‘Yeah, don’t worry. He’s all yours.’
The constable wrestles Denzil to his feet. He looks like a caged lion, tawny hair springing everywhere. All the fight has gone out of him. His face crumples as he stares back over his shoulder at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mouths, then lets himself be dragged away.
DI Powell smooths down his hair and looks at me, clearly concerned. ‘You okay, Eleanor?’
‘Never better. He got nowhere near me.’ I frown as the inspector turns away. ‘Wait. You’re not going to arrest him again, are you? Denzil hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s just upset because he thinks I betrayed him.’
The inspector looks back at me wryly. ‘Drunk and disorderly. Assault on a police officer. Public affray. Resisting arrest. Need I go on?’
‘But you don’t have to arrest him. You can choose to give him a warning instead.’
Powell hesitates. ‘That’s true, yes.’
I glance at Tris, who is a few feet away, still looking flushed and angry as he watches Denzil being manhandled into a police van. I say, ‘If I agree to come in for another interview, will you let him go?’
‘This isn’t a barter system,’ Powell says, his tone sardonic.
‘I don’t have to talk to you again if I don’t want to.’
He looks at me closely, then sighs. ‘Okay. No arrest. No charges. But perhaps a verbal warning. Does that satisfy you?’
I smile. ‘Thanks,’ I say, then hold out my hand to Tris. ‘Come on, let’s go and visit my mother’s grave.’
The road outside the church is quiet now, and to my relief, the journalists appear to have vanished en masse, just as they arrived. I can see Denzil sitting in the back of the police van, head down, talking to one of the officers. He seems much calmer now.
We set off up the hill side by side. The overflow cemetery is only a three minute walk from the church, but the hill’s steep so it always takes longer going up than coming down.
‘What did the inspector want?’
‘To frighten me. I have a feeling he thinks I know something I haven’t shared with the police.’
Tris narrows his eyes against the sun, squinting back over his shoulder like he wants to check we’re not being followed.
‘And do you?’
I grin. ‘Plenty.’
‘Did you tell him about the photograph?’
‘No.’
He looks at me then, suddenly intent. ‘Why not?’
‘No need for them to know. They’ll only insist on a search of the cottage, make me see if anything else is missing. I couldn’t stand that, the invasion of my privacy. Besides, I hate the way Powell is obsessed with me being some kind of target for this guy. I know I’ve got to be careful. I’m not an idiot. And yes, it scares the shit out of me to think whoever murdered Sarah McGellan might be watching me too, waiting for his chance.’
‘He’d have to come through me first.’
‘My hero.’ I squeeze his hand, my grip lingering a few seconds longer than necessar
y. I haven’t forgotten the way he looked at me in church. But now is not the time. ‘But part of me is also thinking, fuck it, bring him on. Let him try his best shot. I’m ready for him.’
Tris shakes his head. ‘Good grief. Keep going to the therapy sessions. You need them.’
I laugh, starting to relax now we’re out of sight of the police. It may be ridiculous but I still feel guilty when DI Powell is around. Like I’m making it all up. Though the discovery of Sarah McGellan’s body has at least made that an impossibility.
We round the bend in full sunshine and arrive at the newer cemetery, built because the old churchyard was overflowing, with no room for new graves. There’s a sign on the chest-high metal gate: the usual small print about municipal sites; the council taking no responsibility, etc. It protests as we push it open.
‘Hinges need oiling,’ Tris comments, glancing back as the gate squeaks shut behind us.
I often wish Mum was buried in the old churchyard. It feels quieter and more peaceful there, sheltered by the church walls and overshadowed by dark, ancient yew trees. The strong Cornish winds blow straight off the moor and over the old graves, some of their headstones half-sunk into grass or eroded by the centuries so the names of the dead are no longer readable. But today I welcome the bright, breezy look of the modern plot. It’s sunny here among the clean white and marbled gravestones, a few bouquets of flowers arranged in stainless steel pots on the newest graves, ribboned clusters nodding in the breeze, even a little blue teddy bear left on the baby’s grave that I can never pass without wanting to cry.
We climb silently up through the sloping plot, round the grassy bend behind the trees, to where my mother lies buried.
Tris stops dead at the corner. ‘Eleanor.’
I look at him, still hanging on his arm. ‘What now?’ I tease him, amused by his expression. ‘Ready to confess it was you all along?’
He meets my eyes. ‘Eleanor,’ he repeats hoarsely, then points towards my mother’s grave.
