He dragged his fingers through his dark hair. ‘So how was Europe?’
‘Good. You should go sometime. Poland is beautiful.’ She stared into his eyes and smiled. She’d read once, many years ago, that his eye condition – central heterochromia – was often genetic. She would dream, back then, when she first learnt from Felix that they were adopted, that their real parents were out there somewhere searching for them, and one day their mystery mother or father or both would spot Hugh somewhere because of his eyes, and they would know it was their lost son, and they would scoop her and Hugh up and take them far away from Flynn House, far away from Felix. But it had never happened. And now it didn’t matter anymore. In fact, she didn’t care who her real parents were. She would turn her back if they ever appeared. Maybe even kill them for putting her and Hugh through such pain.
Hugh carried the tray of three mugs and the tin of cakes through to the lounge. Pippa had decorated the room in eye-dazzling colours, made cushions and curtains from zingy fabrics. Books were squashed onto bookshelves. Cute ornaments crammed on surfaces. It was ablaze with cheerfulness. It made Verity’s head hurt.
‘Let me show you the baby’s room.’ He put down the tray, and headed up the stairs. Verity followed, trying not to show her reluctance.
It was painted pastel lemon. ‘We don’t know if it’s a boy or girl,’ Hugh said, his eyes bright. ‘I picked up the cot and rocking chair from an antique shop in Dunwold, and Pippa painted them white, and etched them with the lemon roses.’ He sounded so proud – excited.
‘It’s a lovely room, Hugh,’ she said, turning and heading back downstairs.
The whole house oozed optimism and exuberance.
Hugh followed her down. And once in the lounge, mugs in hands, they stood at the window. Pippa was rubbing the base of her back. She was big now, the curve of her belly like a balloon waiting to burst, overdue by a week. Pregnancy suited her – made her even more beautiful. Verity envied her for that. Why couldn’t the woman throw up every morning, and look a complete wreck? ‘There’s something I need to tell you, Hugh,’ Verity began, but his eyes were narrowing as he looked out, his cheeks flushing. Verity moved her gaze to the window. Pippa’s face had morphed into a grim stare. Within moments, she was doubled over, crying out in pain. Hugh dropped his mug to the floor with a thud, coffee splattering the wall. He pushed past Verity, almost knocking her over, as he raced for the front door.
Verity watched through the window, as her brother’s long limbs took him across the lawn towards his soul mate. By the time he was by her side, Pippa was on her knees, crying out.
Verity placed her hand on the window. Frozen. She wanted to run back to Flynn House – she didn’t want to be a part of this, but Hugh was suddenly back.
‘Call an ambulance,’ he cried, before rushing back out to Pippa.
Verity snapped back from the window, put down her coffee, and picked up the phone receiver. But she knew by the sound of silence on the other end that the phone line was down – it often was, the connection to the mainland poor. She looked towards the front door, her heart thudding, and slammed the receiver down. She knew little about delivering someone else’s baby, and Hugh knew even less.
‘We need to get her inside the cottage,’ she cried, as she hurried through the front door, and across the lawn to where he was kneeling, clasping Pippa’s hand. She was on her back now, sprawled on the grass. ‘She can’t give birth out here in the garden.’
Pippa let out an agonised cry, her face contorted with pain as she grabbed her stomach.
‘What the hell do we do?’ Hugh’s eyes were pleading, as though Verity could make everything right, as she always did. ‘Did you call an ambulance?’ He looked out across the sea with watery eyes. ‘The tide’s in. Should we get the boat out?’
‘They’re on their way, Hugh.’ It was a lie. But Verity didn’t want to worry him further. They could deliver this child, couldn’t they? Everything would be OK. ‘We need to get her inside the cottage,’ she repeated.
‘No!’ Pippa cried, as they attempted to move her, fat tears rolling down her face. ‘Please. No.’
Hugh had told her once that Pippa hadn’t seen a doctor in all the time she’d been carrying the child – insisting natural was best.
‘Get some towels, Hugh,’ Verity said, her voice shaking. ‘Boil some kettles, that’s what they do on TV.’
‘Christ, you haven’t got a clue, have you?’
‘I’m a bloody artist, not a midwife.’
‘Will one of you please get a grip?’ Pippa roared through her tears, squeezing her eyes together, the pain clearly unbearable. ‘Help me for God’s sake.’
Hugh grabbed Pippa’s hand and Verity sucked in a breath. ‘OK. Let’s both of us calm down, shall we?’ she said. ‘How hard can it be? People have been having babies since the beginning of time.’ She swiped her palm across her forehead. ‘Go get some towels, Hugh.’ Her voice was low and raspy. ‘And a blanket or something, and boil up some scissors to cut the cord, a pillow for her head, maybe.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Hugh got to his feet, and raced into the house, and Verity turned her eyes to Pippa. ‘I don’t like you,’ she said, taking Pippa’s hand. ‘And you don’t like me. But we need to get your baby safely into the world for my brother’s sake. OK?’
Pippa nodded, her face bright red, her forehead shining with sweat. ‘OK.’
Five minutes later, Hugh raced out of the house with a handful of towels, some scissors, a blanket, a pillow wedged under his arm. ‘Here you go, sweetheart,’ he said, putting the pillow under Pippa’s head. ‘Now what?’
‘Christ! I need to push,’ Pippa cried. She released Verity’s hand, grabbed her forehead with both hands, and squeezed her eyes together. ‘God my head, my head hurts too. Why does it hurt so bad?’ She stared up at Hugh. ‘Oh God.’
The midday sun pounded down on them, scorching Verity’s shoulders as she dragged off Pippa’s underwear, and folded the woman’s legs at her knees so her floral dress fell about her thighs. ‘The head’s almost here,’ Verity cried, her stomach churning with nausea. ‘Pretty sure you need to push again, Pippa.’
‘And breathe too, Pippa,’ Hugh cried. ‘Slow, deep breaths.’
‘Which? Which, Hugh? Breathe or push?’
‘Both. Breathe and push.’ He dropped to his knees near her head, and took hold of her hand.
‘The head’s out, Pippa,’ Verity said, peering between the woman’s legs. ‘Your baby is about to be born. You’re doing great.’
‘I don’t know. What? I don’t know.’ Pippa sounded confused. Was struggling to get her words out. ‘My head, my head,’ she cried.
The baby slid into the world, and let out a cry, and, with shaking fingers, Verity cut the slippery cord, and wrapped the child in a large grey beach towel. ‘You need to push again, Pippa. You need to push out the placenta.’ She was about to pass the child to Pippa, when the woman’s eyes rolled into her head. ‘Pippa? Pippa, are you OK?’
Tears rolled down Pippa’s cheeks. Her muscles twitched. She was trying to speak, but it was clear she couldn’t form any words.
‘What the hell is happening?’ Hugh cried, grabbing both her hands. He swiped a look at Verity. ‘V, help her, please. What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know how, Hugh. She looks like she’s having some kind of stroke or seizure.’
‘Where’s the ambulance, for Christ’s sake?’ His face streamed with tears.
‘They’re not coming, Hugh.’ She was surprised how calm she sounded.
‘What?’
‘The phone line is down.’
‘Christ! Why the hell didn’t you say, Verity?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘For God’s sake.’ Colour had drained from his cheeks, his eyes red from tears. ‘She’s so still. What’s wrong with her? What’s wrong, Pippa? Pippa?’
The baby cradled in one arm, Verity pressed her fingertips on Pippa’s wrist, searching for a pulse
.
‘What?’ he yelled. ‘What?’
‘I’m so sorry, Hugh.’ She looked up at him.
‘No!’ He fell across his wife’s motionless body, sobbing. ‘But that can’t be right. Oh God no. No!’
‘You need to concentrate on your baby, Hugh.’ He hadn’t even looked at the child. Asked anything about the little thing.
‘No. No. Pippa would still be here if …’ He got to his feet, his sobs loud and desperate.
‘Hugh. Your baby needs you.’ She held out the child wrapped in the towel.
‘I can’t. I can’t, Verity.’ He stumbled towards the house, zigzagging across the lawn until he got to the open front door. ‘I can’t do this,’ he said, stepping inside, and slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 24
Halloween Weekend 2019
Alice
Alice buries her face in her hands, her tear-soaked fingers locked against her skin, nausea churning through her body. She knows she will have to look up eventually. See them again: Dane and Savannah Winslow. She can’t sit here forever hiding her eyes like a child playing peekaboo. She can’t escape this room without seeing them again: the lifeless bodies of the popular influencers.
Memories flood her head of Savannah’s nasty jibes, the way she laughed as she said her father’s death would save the world from more of his books, Dane with his perfect body, his cock-sure attitude, pulling her father apart so soon after his death like a corpse being torn limb from limb by wild beasts. It had been personal. The words ‘good thing he’s dead’ had hurt Alice like hell.
‘It goes with the territory,’ she could almost hear her dad saying. ‘If you dance the polka, Alice, there will always be someone who prefers the foxtrot.’
Alice peels her hands from her damp face. ‘No, no, no,’ she whispers as her eyes land on their bodies once more. Their backs are upright against the headboard, arms by their sides. Both have red spots on their cheeks, giving them a fake glow, Dane wearing a red bow tie.
Puppets – someone’s turned them into puppets.
Her eyes swoop the half-eaten canapés, the glasses of half-drunk champagne on the table by the window, the pools of vomit on the floor. ‘They’ve been poisoned,’ Alice whispers. How could someone do this? She looks at Christine. ‘Who prepared their food?’
Christine doesn’t seem to hear through her own sobs as she frantically searches the room. Opening drawers, bags and holdalls.
‘Should you be doing that?’ Leon says, seeming to jolt to life. ‘I’ve seen enough TV crime to know you’re messing with forensics.’
‘We need to find a phone, Leon, call the police,’ Christine cries, slamming closed a drawer. She stops searching and stares at the victims.
‘Did you prepare the food, Christine?’ Alice asks, struggling to pull her eyes away from the couple.
‘Cameron did,’ Christine says through her tears. ‘But why would he kill them? Why would anyone kill them?’ She hiccups, wipes her tear-streaked cheeks. ‘Who the hell would make them look so bizarre? They barely said a word to anyone since they arrived, kept themselves to themselves. Who would do this?’
‘Let’s get out of here.’ Leon takes Alice’s hand, and pulls her to her feet. She’s thankful that he’s made her move, is getting her out of this room. ‘We can’t think straight in here,’ he goes on, assertive. ‘Let’s go back down to the bar.’
On the landing, Lori is struggling to breathe. ‘Who would do that?’ She wheezes, presses her hand against her chest. ‘I need my inhaler,’ she says, rooting around in her bag. ‘I can’t find my inhaler.’
‘Let me look,’ Christine says, taking the bag from Lori, and quickly finding the inhaler.
‘Well, I need a drink.’ Leon’s eyes are wide and fiery. He dashes towards the stairs, pulling Alice along with him. Christine and Lori follow, as though scared to be alone, the sound of their anxious sobs echoing throughout the building.
By the time they reach the bar, Lori’s gone into a kind of spasm, bending over making an awful strangled sound.
‘Deep breaths, Lori, love,’ Christine says, rubbing the woman’s back. ‘Take a couple more puffs.’
‘Is she going to be OK?’ Faith says, dashing over, followed by Gabriela. Lori takes a puff, then another, breathes in and out slow and steady, eventually straightening up, her face shiny, her eye make-up smudged.
Leon heads behind the bar, and pours brandy into several mismatched glasses. Everyone takes a glass, before heading across the room towards the table by the window they vacated earlier. Christine, in words that tumble out at speed, tells Faith and Gabriela about the Winslows. Though Gabriela doesn’t seem to understand, her face stony pale, her eyes dark.
Leon paces, taking large gulps of his drink. ‘Whoever did this is in the hotel,’ he says, eyes flicking from one guest to another. ‘Can we even trust each other?’
‘I think we need to find Cameron,’ Christine says as everyone else sits down, banging her empty glass down on the table.
‘Do we? Why?’ Leon’s tone is agitated, his voice trembling. ‘What if this mystery guy, who nobody seems to have seen, did this? Killed the Winslows? Or maybe he doesn’t exist at all?’
‘But, I’ve seen him,’ Faith says. ‘Admittedly not since I’ve been here, which I realise isn’t helpful at all. But he exists.’
Lori gets up and makes her way to the bar.
‘Bring the bottle over,’ Leon calls after her.
Faith’s eyes are focused on the window. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’
‘Well the first rule is,’ Leon begins, ‘we stay together.’
‘Leon’s right,’ Faith agrees, looking up at him as he continues to pace. ‘I’ve seen enough scary movies to know splitting up gets us killed.’
A stab of fear pierces Alice’s heart. ‘Oh God, please don’t say that.’ A tear rolls down her cheek. ‘This is too much.’
Leon crouches down by her side, and takes her hand, laces his fingers with hers. Their eyes meet. ‘We’ll be OK, Alice,’ he says, pushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. She wishes she could believe his words.
Faith gets up as though something has struck her. ‘Talking of going off on our own. Where’s Mitch?’ She walks towards the French doors, and looks out. ‘He was out there earlier having a ciggie, wasn’t he?’ She opens the door. The wind takes it from her hand and it jerks back on its hinges, bangs hard against the wall. ‘Mitch!’ she calls. ‘Mitch, are you out there?’ She turns back, looks at the others, wide-eyed.
‘Boo!’ He appears behind her, and grabs her shoulders with heavy hands.
Faith screams, clasping her chest. She shrugs his hands away, a flash of anger in her eyes. ‘What the hell did you do that for?’
‘You’re edgy, babe.’ He lumbers into the bar, and approaches the table looking windswept, and bringing with him a waft of cigarette smoke. ‘What’s up with you lot? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘It’s Dane and Savannah Winslow … They’re dead.’ Alice doesn’t meet his eye, is surprised how calm her voice sounds. ‘Murdered.’
‘The Winslows?’ He scans the gathering. ‘Christ! Is this true?’
Everyone nods.
‘Where? How? Have you called the police?’
‘We can’t,’ Alice says. ‘The landline is down, and everyone’s phones have gone missing.’
He looks towards the window. It’s the first time Alice has seen him lost for words, a flash of fear on his normally arrogant face.
‘I’ve been thinking. I reckon our only hope is the cottage,’ Lori says, returning with the bottle of brandy, and still sounding breathless. She sits down and splashes some of the amber liquid into her glass and Leon’s. ‘Whoever took our phones must be here – in this house.’ Her frightened eyes skitter across the bar. ‘Surely, whoever it is, they wouldn’t have thought to take Cameron’s phone.’
Leon nods. ‘Good point.’
‘Unless the killer is Cameron,’ Chris
tine says. ‘We can’t rule that out.’
‘Yes, but there may even be a landline over there,’ Faith says, pushing back her fringe.
‘If we head over there together, we’ll be safe,’ Lori goes on, picking up the glass, and taking a swig of her drink.
‘Sounds like a good plan. I’m up for going to the cottage,’ Leon says.
‘Me too.’ Faith rises. ‘Alice?’
‘OK.’ Alice reluctantly rises.
Lori goes to get up, but it’s clear she’s still having problems catching her breath, and lowers back down in her seat. ‘Oh God. I’m not sure I’m up to it, if I’m honest.’
‘I’ll stay with Lori.’ Mitch has been to the bar, grabbed himself a glass. He fills it with brandy, so full some spills over the top of the glass, and splashes the table.
‘Surely if we can’t all go, none of us should,’ Christine says. ‘You just made a big thing about us all staying together, Leon.’
Lori looks over at Gabriela, who has moved away from everyone, and is now sitting on a stool at the next table, her head in her hands, her dark hair hanging over her face. ‘Maybe if Gabriela and Mitch stay with me … Gabriela doesn’t seem to know what’s going on anyway, and it will confuse her further if she goes with you. We’ll stay here in the bar together.’
Alice furrows her forehead, stares at the woman who is stroking the thick mane of hair hanging over her shoulder. ‘Are you sure?’
Mitch drops down in a seat next to Lori with a thud. ‘I’ll take good care of her,’ he says, as Gabriela gets to her feet and heads back behind the bar. ‘I have the feeling it’s going to be a long night,’ he goes on, as everyone heads away. He gulps back the brandy, drains the glass. Picks up the bottle and takes a long swig from it.
Chapter 25
1989
Verity
Verity was surprised by the pang of sadness she felt when Pippa Larkin died. Though, if she really thought about it, it wasn’t exactly a pang. A pang would imply a shock-like feeling, a pinball ricocheting through her body bouncing off her emotions, tears maybe, heart thumps, even tremors. She certainly hadn’t felt any of that nonsense. A tingle then – yes, she’d felt a tingle of sadness that her brother had lost the love of his life.
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