Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Jane Holland

  But today, when I saw that dead body lying across my mother’s grave, I knew the two worlds had finally collided. The world of the village and the world of the woods had smashed into each other at that instant with a terrible, silent explosion. It was as though the underworld had opened its dark gates, and someone had carried the dead woman through them and straight up into the land of the living.

  For me to find.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘Eleanor?’

  I don’t realise he’s moved until Tris reaches out and strokes my cheek with a finger, breaking the spell of the underworld. The caress is so unexpected, I almost flinch and catch myself just in time.

  ‘You still think I’ve got something to do with these murders,’ he says broodingly, ‘don’t you?’

  Silently, I shake my head. But we’ve been friends a long time and he can read me better than that.

  ‘I hate that you suspect me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I whisper.

  His gaze searches my face. ‘No, you’re not. It gives you a perfect excuse to keep me at arms’ length.’

  ‘Is that what I’m doing?’

  Deliberately, I reach out and place a hand on his chest.

  Tris catches his breath. I feel his chest rise with the sudden influx of air into his lungs. His eyes widen, the dark pupils dilating. The classic sign of sexual desire. Then he leans forward and I close my eyes instinctively, not quite believing he intends to kiss me, and am shocked when our lips meet.

  It’s not like that time when he kissed me in the club at Newquay. That was an abrupt, unhappy, three-second embrace, a rejection of tenderness. This is a slow, tentative exploration for both of us, and I sense he’s ready to draw back if I show even the slightest hesitation. But I don’t. The gentle pressure deepens until we’re kissing open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against mine.

  I know he is strong. This is a man who works out by lifting sheep over his shoulders and carrying them across three fields. His body is built for strength and stamina, with his broad chest and muscular thighs, the effortless power of his biceps. But I had not realized until this moment how graceful Tristan is.

  Midway through the kiss he slips an arm about my waist, as though to draw me closer, but instead wrong-foots me, supporting my weight over the crook of his arm, and lowers me to the bed.

  I wrestle with his shirt buttons, and he focuses on mine, a look of fierce concentration on his face. Then his bare chest is under my fingers, strong and dark-haired. I stroke him, and then gasp when he drags my shirt off my shoulders, reaches round the back to unclasp my bra and release my breasts, and lowers his head to my nipple.

  ‘Yes,’ I say hoarsely.

  I arch my back, enjoying his ministrations, then decide to take the initiative. In one smooth movement, I roll over to straddle him. I hug his hips tight with both knees, smiling as I keep him pinned down and bend to taste his nipples too, just as he tasted mine. He makes an incoherent sound in the back of his throat.

  ‘What?’ I tease him, flicking his nipple with my tongue. God, he tastes good. ‘You like this? You want more?’

  He bites his lower lip. I see a bead of blood there. ‘Lower,’ he says, daring me to take it further.

  The hint of danger excites me. He could be a killer. And I’m about to have sex with him. I’m not scared though. Adrenalin has already kicked in, pumping heat and energy around my body like a shot of neat Russian vodka. Plus, there’s this odd, familiarity-versus-alien territory thing going on with us. I know this man so well, his face, his hands, his laugh, his quick, sharp breaths as I kiss his throat. But I don’t know him at all really, because he is also this secret Tris, the man I don’t know about, the one who keeps stolen photographs of me in his room …

  He jerks me across him, trying to get back on top, and I retaliate at once, flexing my muscles to resist him. We wrestle for a moment, sweaty and breathless, then end up on the floor with a thud, face-to-face, our legs tangled together, our arms about each other.

  ‘Ouch,’ he says, grimacing.

  ‘Sorry. But I prefer being on top.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Looks like we have a problem, then.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ He kisses my throat. ‘We’ll just keep changing ends. Like a tennis match.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Come here,’ he says breathlessly, and tugs me towards him. ‘I need to fuck you.’

  ‘Ditto.’ I take his mouth, my kiss deep and urgent. He groans, and his hands find my skirt, drag it up, reach beneath, stroking me.

  My head feels like it is going to explode. ‘Baby, yes.’

  It takes us a few frustrating moments to get his trousers unzipped and off his body; he has to help me, kicking his trousers away with growing impatience. To my excitement, he is extremely well-equipped, though this is not surprising, given his powerful build. Oh God, I keep thinking, touching him with my mouth open. Oh God, oh God.

  ‘Condom,’ he mutters.

  ‘Don’t you have one?’

  He stares at me. ‘At a memorial service?’

  I shift onto hands and knees, and turn, scrabbling in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet. To my relief, the packet is still there, pushed right to the back. I haven’t exactly been enjoying a great sex life since university.

  ‘Here.’

  Tris sits on the edge of the unmade bed, flushed and intent. I peel off my black skirt and thong, then kneel beside him. We kiss frantically, collapsing against the pillows. I’m half out of my mind with need before he’s inside me.

  The rain keeps falling hard, a dark curtain beating against my window in grim counterpoint to our rhythm. I think about Sarah McGellan’s memorial service, the wreaths and lilies below her photograph, how the proximity of death seems to make us crave sex more keenly.

  I clutch at his broad shoulders, wrap my legs greedily about his hips, pressing down on his buttocks, dragging him closer. The bed creaks noisily, shifting back and forth on the old floorboards, and I find myself hoping that Hannah has left for work by now, that she’s not staring wide-eyed at the kitchen ceiling.

  Then he kisses me, his naked body large and strong, thrusting hard against me, and I lose all coherent thought.

  We make love twice more over the next few hours, hungry to taste more of each other’s flesh, and are lying together sated and exhausted in the semi-darkness of a late dusk when the landline handset rings. Its screen lights up, illuminating the room with an eerie green light, as it buzzes on top of the bedside cabinet.

  Not quite awake, I stretch an arm out of bed to retrieve the phone, and then grope for the right button to answer the call.

  ‘Hello?’

  It’s DI Powell. He sounds urgent. ‘Eleanor? I’ve been trying to reach your mobile for ages. I’ve left messages …’

  Tris is lying next to me in bed, listening. I see the gleam of his eyes in the dark. ‘What?’ I sit up against the pillows, frowning. It takes a few seconds for the inspector’s words to sink in. ‘My mobile’s still in my bag downstairs. I’m in my bedroom, I didn’t hear it ringing. Is this about the witness statement?’

  ‘Sorry, were you sleeping? Did I wake you? Look, we can take your statement tomorrow, Eleanor. That’s not important right now. I just wanted to make sure you were safe at home and everything was okay.’

  There’s something in his tone. Like he’s withholding information.

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing you can help us with. You get a good night’s sleep, okay? I’m going to send over an officer to sit outside your cottage overnight, if that’s agreeable.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, though I am immediately uneasy about the idea of being watched in my own home. ‘What about the woman in the cemetery? Do we know who she is yet?’ I try not to think of her as victim Number Three, though the number on her forehead is hard to forget.

  ‘We’ve spoken to her next of kin, so I suppose I can tell you her name. It turns out she was on our list of missing
persons. From Bodmin, so quite local. Dawn Trevian.’ He pauses. ‘Does that name ring a bell?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  He sounds disappointed. ‘Well, it was worth asking. I’ll send that police car round straightaway.’

  ‘I thought you said it would be a last resort, sending an officer to watch the house.’

  The inspector hesitates, and I hear hesitation in his voice again. ‘We may be getting there, I’m afraid. This new missing person report … It’s not looking good. Another local woman. Though I don’t want you to worry about it. In most cases of missing persons, there’s a perfectly simple explanation. She’ll probably turn up tomorrow and be embarrassed about all the fuss.’

  Some sixth sense prickles at me. I stare into the glimmering darkness uneasily. I remember being surprised not to see Jenny at the memorial service, though her parents were there and she had told me herself that she would make the effort.

  Beside me, Tris struggles up onto one elbow. He leans across me to check the LED display on my digital clock. I glance that way too, automatically. It’s just after ten o’clock. His hand brushes my breast, and I meet his gaze.

  ‘Is it Jenny Crofter?’ I ask.

  DI Powell does not bother to deny it. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘A hunch.’

  ‘Another one of your hunches.’ He sighs, sounding deflated. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so, it’s Jenny Crofter . She went out early yesterday evening but didn’t come home again, and didn’t call to explain why. Which is highly unusual behaviour, according to her parents.’

  I remember what Jenny told me about her girlfriend, that they rarely get a chance to be together. ‘Maybe she went to a friend’s house for the night.’

  ‘Eleanor, I know Jenny is a good friend of yours as well as a colleague. But I think you need to prepare yourself for the worst.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Her Renault was found in the upper car park at Eastlyn Woods late this morning. The ticket on her windscreen showed she had paid for an hour’s parking yesterday afternoon, at just before five o’clock.’

  ‘She went for a run in the woods,’ I whisper.

  ‘It looks like it, yes.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Once Tris has gone home to the farm, which he insists on doing when he hears a police car may be heading our way, I take a long, cool shower and put on a pair of white cotton pyjamas, then head downstairs again barefoot. I peer out through the front door, and see the blurry shape of a car in the turning area, lights off, a darker shadow in the driver’s seat. My guardian officer for the night, presumably.

  I would have preferred Tris to stay the night. His warm body lying next to mine in bed would have been a greater comfort than this anonymous sentinel at my door. But I suppose he did not like the idea of being seen creeping away from my cottage at first light, and I can hardly blame him.

  It’s nearly midnight but my fatigue has dropped away in another wave of adrenalin. My head is processing what has happened, but not to any useful end, chugging noisily round and round the same territory, like a circular train track. I sit in the kitchen under the glare of the ceiling spot lights, nursing a mug of tea until it goes cold between my hands.

  Why on earth would Jenny have gone running in Eastlyn Woods so soon after our gruesome discovery there? She knew better than most how dangerous it could be.

  I am bewildered that she would even have made such a stupid decision in the first place. Then I am angry. I push my cold tea away in disgust. What the hell had Jenny been thinking? Hadn’t she listened to a word I said? And all those lurid, sensationalist stories in the national papers about a strangler preying on women in Cornwall … Had those warnings failed to register on her blinkered, athletics-mad brain, the brain of a woman who was intent on getting to a peak of fitness so she could take part in a triathlon, so she could push herself to the limit?

  My eye falls on the white edge of a piece of paper across the kitchen. Something propped up behind the large black pepper pot.

  Connor’s note.

  I stare at it blankly for a moment, then get up to retrieve it.

  Come and see me. We need to talk. C.

  I turn it over in my hand, thinking. Hannah must have tidied it away. Connor had wanted to talk to me, but when I went over to the farm, he had gone out to fetch Tris home from the police station. Then I had broken into the farm, and fled out the window when they got back, and since then I had not seen had a chance to speak to Connor. He was always busy with the farm, of course. He took his responsibilities there very seriously, more so than Tris. But he must have wanted to speak to me alone at some point.

  Perhaps he had only wanted to warn me off seeing Tris. That was never going to happen though, especially now that we had slept together. But he was probably still worried about where our friendship might be headed. And our joint discovery of another dead body won’t have helped him feel more at ease with it.

  I fish for my mobile in my bag. Seven missed calls. Five of them from DI Powell. Two from Connor, one only an hour ago. I would have been in the shower when he called.

  I text him. Sorry I missed your call. Too late, or do you still want to talk?

  I rinse out my mug and set it to dry on the draining board, tidy away a few things from yesterday’s breakfast that I had forgotten about, and glance idly through the cupboard labelled ELLIE. I have not been shopping much lately, and the food cupboards are pretty bare. My stomach rumbles, and I realise that I haven’t eaten for well over twelve hours. Tins of soup and beans, some old sesame seed crackers, a packet of jelly. There’s not much to tempt me except Hannah’s latest batch of rock cakes, left to cool on the side and covered with a dishcloth to prevent them from going stale.

  I lift the edge of the cloth and breathe in the delicious cakey aroma, then reluctantly drop it again and force myself to nibble on a sesame seed cracker instead. She will go mad if she comes home to find I’ve eaten even one of her cakes for the garden party fundraiser. Though perhaps if I were to leave some money for the charity in its place …

  My mobile buzzes. I walk over and look down at the screen.

  Sorry, just off to bed. How about tomorrow? Lunch at The Green Man, 12pm. Just you and me.

  I reply, See you there.

  In the silence that follows, I finish eating my cracker and stand there, weighing the mobile in my hand. Should I call Tris? It’s nearly one in the morning now, but he might still be awake. I could wish him good night.

  Only he hasn’t called me, has he? Not even a quick text message to say, ‘Goodnight,’ or ‘Sweet dreams,’ or even, ‘Thinking of you.’

  That may mean nothing, of course. It may mean I wore the big man out with hours of rampant, energetic sex, and an exhausted Tris has turned his phone off and crawled into bed. But it could also mean he’s sitting there right now, a cold beer in his hand and his brother Connor by his side, in the untidy living room of their farmhouse, the two inseparable Taylor brothers, scrolling through my text messages and laughing over how easy it was to get the mad girl into bed.

  I flick back to Connor’s message and study it a moment before turning off the phone for the night. Just you and me.

  I sleep late that morning, my body heavy and relaxed after a long and emotional day. By the time I have washed, dressed, and hurried downstairs, it is gone half past eleven and soon I’ll be running late for my lunch date with Connor.

  There’s no time for breakfast, so I down a glass of tap water instead and brush my bed-hair in front of the glass door of the microwave. I am not bothering with make-up. I rarely do, I hate the way it makes my skin feel clogged up. I find a lipstick in my bag though and apply it carefully, then blot my lips with kitchen paper.

  ‘You’ll do,’ I tell my blurred reflection. It’s only Connor, after all.

  I wonder if Connor knows about me and Tris yet. He might be jealous, after all. I know he used to hold a torch for me when we were in school, and we have dated a few times, though our r
elationship never got beyond kisses and cuddles. I suppose I always preferred Tris, deep down, and perhaps his brother could sense that even before I was aware of it myself.

  Before leaving, I run back upstairs to look in on Hannah, who is still awake and watching television in her bedroom. She must have showered while I was asleep because her hair looks damp. She picks up the remote when I come in, and mutes the telly.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks, looking up at me with obvious concern. ‘I saw the police car outside when I got home from work. I have to say, it freaked me out a bit. I thought something had happened to you.’

  ‘Sorry, my fault. I should have called to warn you. The inspector thinks I may be in danger, so there’ll probably be a police car parked outside at night from now on. Until the killer’s caught, anyway.’ I pause. ‘Did you hear about Jenny Crofter?’

  She nods, her expression appalled. ‘It was on the local news earlier. The police are appealing for information. Poor Jenny. Though it’s so strange, isn’t it? I don’t understand what she was doing in Eastlyn Woods at all. I wouldn’t go near there if you paid me.’

  ‘Neither would I. She should have known better.’ I check the time on my phone. ‘Look, I’m going out for a while. Are you working again tonight?’

  ‘For my sins, yes.’ She looks me up and down, and smiles. I’m in black jeans and a red strappy top that clings rather too tightly, but is the only clean item of clothing I could find today that didn’t need ironing. ‘Meeting Tris for a date? You two looked good together yesterday.’

  I hesitate, a little embarrassed. How much did she hear before leaving for work last night? There would probably have been a tremendous thud on the ceiling when we fell out of bed …

  ‘Just going to the pub.’ I don’t mention Connor. She would only leap to the wrong conclusion.

  ‘Well, have a nice time. I’m off to the vicarage garden party soon with my rock cakes. Will you be taking that policeman with you too?’

  I stare. ‘I’d forgotten about him. How annoying. I bet he’ll want to follow me to the pub.’