by Jane Holland
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
There’s a woman stretched out on her back, lying across my mother’s grave.
I know at once that she’s dead, and not least because I’ve seen her before, lying in the woods in the exact spot where the woman under that grave was strangled.
It’s Number Three.
That morning she looked awkward, positioned in a ghoulish way to catch the eye, legs drawn up slightly, one arm above her head, her index finger pointing mysteriously down at the stream. Now it looks as though she lay down to sleep – and never woke up.
I stop in front of her and force myself to look at her properly this time, no flinching.
The body is partially wrapped in what looks like old sacking, but she appears to be naked beneath it. The rotting, yellowish material has fallen away in places, displaying her right shoulder and a little of her breast, plus part of her belly and thigh. Her skin underneath is dirty white with a yellowish tinge, like the sacking itself. The long, limp chestnut hair lies in clumped strands about her face and bare shoulders. She has a high forehead, a neatly upturned nose, pale lips. Too pale.
Her throat is horribly mottled though: livid white patches, then dark bruising in that only too familiar rope-burn pattern I remember from last time.
She was strangled.
For a second I’m back in those lonely woods, staring down at her body from above. Like standing above my mother’s dead body. Run, Ellie, run! My breathing begins to quicken, my pulse hammering unpleasantly. Tiny flashes of memory flicker behind my eyes, leaving me sick and off-balance. A shadow moving behind trees in the woods. Someone watching from above. The sound of birds, calling out a warning.
The icy touch of déja-vu is like cold water down my spine. With an inevitable after-taste of madness.
Someone has touched up the number three in black marker pen since last time. It looks fresh but slightly smudged too. There’s a faint ghost-line round the two curves of the three, I realise, as though whoever rewrote it had not quite removed all traces of the original number first, and just missed tracing it perfectly.
Tris has come to stand behind me. ‘Is this the woman you saw first?’
I nod silently.
‘Number Three,’ he says. ‘And we already found Number Two buried in the woods.’ He pauses a beat. ‘It’s a kind of countdown. But who’s Number One?’
I decide not to answer that.
There are tiny white crystals on her eyelids and slightly parted lips, as though she had breathed her last in the snowy Antarctic. That’s new. I reach out and touch her one of the arms folded across her chest, not in any macabre way but to test a theory.
She’s cold.
Not just chilly, as you would expect. Super-cold.
‘I think she’s been kept in a freezer.’ I stare at the pale eyelids, the whiter-than-white cheeks. ‘So he could preserve her body.’
‘Until now,’ Tris mutters, crouching beside me. He looks unsteady, his gaze locked on the woman’s face.
I glance about at the sunlit trees, the quiet rows of headstones. ‘Well, it’s a good place for a dead body. It’s just usually they’re inside the graves, not on top of them.’
He looks at me sideways, and I hear myself apologize. ‘Sorry, you’re right. Not funny.’ I study the dead woman again, frowning. ‘Seriously though, why here?’
He hesitates. ‘To make sure she’s found quickly?’
‘Too obvious.’
‘For the shock value, then. Like you said, you expect graves here but not dead bodies. Then you come round the corner, and … boom.’
‘That’s closer to the truth, I think. It’s like Sarah McGellan’s body. That was about display too. But also a demonstration.’
‘Of what?’
‘Power. It’s like he’s saying, this is what you’re up against. If I can do this, I can do anything.’
ANGELA BLACKWOOD, the headstone reads starkly, then my mother’s dates of birth and death. So final, nothing you can argue with. Gold letters and numerals etched deep into black-flecked granite. LOVING WIFE TO BEN, MOTHER TO ELEANOR. He wanted me to see this, to show me how personal it is. That’s why he left her here. To make a point. TAKEN TOO SOON. MUCH MISSED.
I look at the line of young silver birches dancing in the breeze, slim-trunked, still ringed with tags from their planting, that separate this higher part of the plot from the rest. The grass banks around us are neat and even, recently mown. I turn my head, looking around, ninety degrees. At our backs is thick hedgerow and fields beyond that, rough stony grassland stretching into woods where the ground gets too steep and wild to be farmed. It’s a peaceful part of the churchyard, but a lonely one too.
‘Whoever the killer is, he knows me. Maybe knew my mother too.’ I look back at the headstone. ‘He wanted me to be the one to find her. To get the full effect. But how could he be sure no one else would find her first and spoil his surprise? I used to put fresh flowers on her grave every Sunday, but I stopped after university.’
‘Maybe it was guesswork. A sheer gamble. Maybe he had a hunch you’d be at the memorial service for Sarah McGellan today, so took a chance on the likelihood of you walking up to visit your mum’s grave.’
I nod, feeling vaguely guilty. How long has it been since I last brought flowers for Mum’s grave? I had intended to buy a nice bunch of flowers and bring them up here on the anniversary of her death. But of course everything had gone wrong that day, starting with the discovery of a dead body in the woods.
‘So he’s a gambler. Or was leaving me a message, knowing she would be found sooner or later. Whatever the reason, he chose this place, this grave, deliberately.’
‘So disrespectful though. A slap in the face.’
‘This is a killer we’re talking about, Tris. I don’t think he’s concerned about social etiquette. Though I agree it’s personal this time, and most definitely aimed at me.’ I study the body, impressed by my own calm. It’s almost unnatural. Perhaps I should be working in a mortuary, not physical education. ‘Not an insult though. She’s too carefully arranged for that. And her body’s partially covered. If he’d wanted to be really offensive … ’
A sudden thought strikes me. ‘We must tell DI Powell,’ I say quickly, ‘before he leaves for the station.’
‘I’ll run down and see if I can catch him.’ Tris straightens, then hesitates. He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Sure you’ll be alright on your own?’
‘I’m not taking my eyes off her again. Last time I did that, she disappeared and nobody believed I’d even seen her. I owe it to this woman to stay put this time.’
Tris squeezes my shoulder. ‘I’ll be right back.’
As soon as he’s out of sight, I realise that I may have made a mistake. The silver birches are moving uneasily in the breeze, the dancing flutter of their green leaves a distraction as I scan the rest of the plot, looking for movement, anything out of place. Worse still, as the breeze strengthens, the thick hedgerow of beech and hawthorn starts making a scraping sound like a bad violinist. Or a gate with a squeaky hinge. I listen to the eerie sound, kneeling beside the dead body. The sun has gone in and it’s suddenly cool up here on the exposed hillside.
The loose sacking flaps back at a sudden gust, revealing her right breast. Something glitters on her nipple. Make-up? Fine sand?
I should probably drag the old sacking back into place, cover her up. Her body is naked underneath it, after all, and it doesn’t seem right to leave her exposed like this.
I stand up, rubbing a hand over my eyes, and turn round, looking away from her body.
It’s the wrong thing to do. He was waiting for me to do that. Gambling on it, in fact.
I gasp and jerk back like I’ve been electrocuted. I don’t believe it. I stare at the overgrown thicket of beech and hawthorn some fifteen or twenty feet away, a boundary hedge between the cemetery plot and the field beyond, and realise I have not imagined that sensation of being watched.
There’s a face among the leaves.
/> I don’t move, staring.
The eyes move, a definite pale flicker among the vivid green leaves.
Someone is watching me from behind the hedge.
‘Eleanor?’
I spin violently at the sound of my name. Footsteps thud heavily across the grass plot. I see legs first, black suit trousers and polished shoes, flickering fast through the row of silver birches in full leaf. Like one of those Victorian cinematic toys, one frame at a time, the light flashing as the images revolve. Then someone comes running round the corner of the trees, holding down his tie to stop it flapping about.
It’s Detective Inspector Powell, followed by one of his younger officers. His head turns from side to side, checking the site, looking for me.
I call his name. He sees me, raises a hand, then looks past me at my mother’s grave.
Powell slows at the sight of the dead body covered in sacking, his expression incredulous and horrified. ‘Oh God, not another one.’
My thoughts entirely.
I look away, pointing at the gloomy hedgerow still shivering and creaking behind me. My finger finds the exact spot where I saw the face. Except I can no longer see that pale flicker of eyes through the leaves.
‘What is it?’ Powell asks, following my pointing finger.
‘I thought I saw … ’
At that moment, the sun comes out again, lighting up this side of the cemetery. There’s nobody there now. The hedgerow is dark green ivy and beech trees decked in glossy new leaves. Light-coloured buds on the narrow, interwoven branches. Late hawthorn blossom gleaming in the sun, a cluster of spiny twigs creaking as they scrape harmlessly against each other. No face though. No watching killer.
I want to tell him about the face among the leaves, but I’m uncertain now. This man already thinks I’m crazy.
‘What did you see, Eleanor?’
He asks the question but he’s on the phone at the same time, not looking at me or the hedgerow marking the boundary of the cemetery plot.
‘Damn signal,’ he mutters, then nods at the young police officer, who’s halted on the grass and is staring ashen-faced at the dead body. ‘Get on the radio, would you?’ Powell tells him, impatient but not unkind. ‘Let them know down at Headquarters that we need forensics up here with their kit. Plus any other bodies that can be spared, the whole works. And don’t let anyone just wander in before they can arrive and secure the site. This is a murder scene now. Quick about it, constable.’
I walk away a few yards, then sit down on one of the newer headstones, keeping my back to my mum’s grave.
The headstone is square across the top, a block of hard white stone that cuts into the back of my thighs. My heart is racing, my chest tight, and I have to fight off waves of nausea. I know the symptoms of a panic attack and concentrate on my breathing, on staying deliberately blank.
Did I imagine that face? Those eyes, watching me through the leaves? Maybe there was no one there. Maybe it was my imagination the whole time.
I glance over my shoulder at the dead woman. DI Powell is bending over her, careful not to disturb the body.
I bury my face in my hands, breathing deep and slow.
‘What did you see, Eleanor?’
I look up to find Powell standing right in front of me. How much time has passed?
‘I saw someone among the bushes there, watching me. But it could have been a trick of the light.’
‘Maybe.’ He scrutinises the hedge, then looks back at me. ‘You don’t have to wait, Eleanor. We’ll take it from here. But I’d like you to go straight home and stay there for the time being. Agreed?’
‘Am I a suspect?’
‘No, but I’ve just heard there’s been another woman reported missing.’ His voice deepens, and he meets my gaze steadily. I can tell from his face that he’s genuinely worried. We go back too many years for him to hide it from me. ‘I don’t want you disappearing too. Got it?’
I nod.
He turns away to make a quick call on his phone, then comes back. ‘One of my officers will run you home. I’ll be in touch later. We’ll need another statement.’
Tris appears at a run round the corner of the silver birches, breathing heavily. He sees me and Powell, and skids to a halt on the grass, then continues more slowly up the slope towards us.
I notice he’s careful not to look at the dead body.
‘Good, you found her,’ Tris says to the inspector, who looks at him hard. Powell still suspects him of being involved, I realise.
‘Where were you?’ I ask.
‘I stopped at the vicarage to tell Reverend Clemo. I thought he should know there’s a body up here. Only he wasn’t at home. His wife’s not sure where he is, she’s trying to reach him on his mobile.’ Tris looks from me to the inspector. ‘Why, has something else happened?’
I draw breath to tell him about the face in the trees, then stop and realise I can’t tell him. Not this.
I don’t trust him enough. Not anymore.
The realization is terrifying.
I try to figure out the maths behind my suspicion. Tris probably had just enough time to tell that young policeman where I was, then double back along the road, climb over the low wall beside the gate and slip into the field that way. It would have taken him only a few minutes to sneak round behind the hedgerow and watch me at the graveside. Though why would he do that? There’s something I’m not seeing. Something important.
The sun disappears behind a cloud. I shiver again, though the breeze is not that cold. I hear the sound of a car coming briskly up the hill from the church. My ride home, probably.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
The smell of baking assails us as we enter the cottage. Hannah has not left for work yet. She is bustling about the kitchen in a cherry-red apron covered in flour when we walk in, her hands powdery, a white smudge on her cheek. She stares in blank disbelief when Tris explains what’s happened.
‘Another one? In the cemetery?’
I gaze out of the kitchen window while Tris tries to explain. The lovely sunshine has vanished and the sky is cloudy now, glowering down at us. It feels like it’s going to pour with rain at any minute. There’s a kind of prickling sixth sense you get about weather when you grow up so near the moor, where the weather can shift abruptly between rain and sunshine, sometimes managing both at the same time.
‘What exactly are you making here, Hannah?’ I turn to look at the floury mess on the kitchen table.
‘Rock cakes.’
‘They smell nice,’ I tell her, glancing at the butter-smeared recipe book propped up against the scales.
‘Hands off. They’re for the vicarage garden party.’
I’m surprised, and stare at her. ‘I didn’t know you were involved with that.’
Hannah shrugs. There are specks of flour even on the lenses of her glasses, I realise. It must be like seeing the world through a snow storm. ‘Mrs Clemo came round the other day. It’s for a good cause. The shelter in town for battered women may have to close. Spending cuts, you know.’ She wipes her floury hands on a dishcloth. ‘They asked for donations of cakes, but I can’t bake anything worth eating except for rock cakes. So I promised them two dozen.’
I see Tris out of the corner of my eye, waiting silently by the door, his impatience palpable. ‘So, you’re working tonight?’ I ask Hannah, keeping my tone innocent.
‘On my way out as soon as these little beauties in the oven are done. It’s my second batch,’ she explains, and whisks a cloth off a baking tray to exhibit a dozen perfect-looking rock cakes.
‘They look amazing,’ I say truthfully.
Hannah smiles, then gazes from me to Tris. At last the penny drops. I see a faint flush come into her cheeks. ‘It won’t be long now,’ she says, checking the wall clock in some confusion. ‘Ten minutes max. Then I’ll be out of your way.’
‘No hurry,’ I say lightly, and nod Tris to follow me out of the kitchen. ‘Have a good shift, Hannah.
See you in the morning.’
My black leather shoes are pinching. I kick them off in the hall and scoop up the phone handset in passing, just in case I get a call on the landline later from DI Powell. I don’t fancy the idea of having to stop and run downstairs for the phone when I might be more interestingly occupied.
Tris crooks an eyebrow as we tramp upstairs. ‘Rock cakes?’ he says under his breath. ‘They don’t sound very promising.’
‘Don’t be rude. Can you bake a cake?’
‘I’ve never tried,’ he admits.
‘Well, then.’
‘I can make a loaf of bread though.’
I glance at him, impressed. ‘White bread?’
‘Wholemeal.’
‘Better and better.’ I kick open my bedroom door. He’s been in there before, of course, many times. But not recently. And not when we’re both in a horny mood. ‘Tired?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither.’
The bed is a mess. Nothing on the scale of his bedroom, though. ‘Sorry, hang on.’ I throw my phone charger to one side, chuck my black and white-striped tracksuit bottoms into the wardrobe, and shake out the duvet.
There’s a sudden rushing noise outside, like a heavy vehicle passing. But it’s not traffic, it’s rain. Sudden, heavy, thunderous rain.
I straighten, listening.
Tris is standing by the window. Right where the shadow man stands in my nightmares. I stay beside the bed and look at him for a moment in silence, studying his profile. The sky behind him is almost black. To the far right I can see the edge of the lane that leads to the village, and beyond it the dark swelling crests of trees across the valley. The beginnings of the woods.
I’ve always thought of the woods as a separate world, a secret territory hidden away from the bustle of village life, the passing tractors, the cyclists stopping to admire the church tower, the neighbours mowing their lawns in summer or chatting over fences. The woods are a place where dark things happen, where I’m never quite safe. Though I’ve challenged that fantasy a thousand times, running along the woodland paths unaccompanied, refusing to let the past devour me.
