The Girl in the Grave: An unputdownable crime thriller with nail-biting suspense

by Helen Phifer

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes, I hope so.’ She fished a business card from her pocket and passed it to her. The woman read it, then passed it to her colleague. Beth cleared her throat.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about one of your former residents, a girl called Chantel Price.’

  The smile disappeared from the woman’s face as she stood up. ‘You’d better come in. I’m Lyn and this is Sue.’

  Beth found herself being let through a narrow door and led into the small office. The woman who’d opened the door waited for her to speak, and Beth wondered if she was out of her mind. This wasn’t her job at all. She was truly pushing all boundaries now.

  ‘I’m the pathologist who conducted Chantel’s post-mortem when she was brought into the mortuary. I’d like to know a little bit about her background, we know so little about her.’

  The women looked at each other.

  Beth wondered how she was going to play this. ‘I just wondered what Chantel was like as a person and why no one had even noticed she was missing? And, can I be honest with you both?’

  They nodded.

  ‘It’s upset me on a very personal level and that doesn’t happen very often.’

  Lyn smiled. ‘Bless you, lovely. I guess you never get used to it. The kids come here when they’re sixteen, and they stay until their eighteenth birthday and it’s hard to watch them leave when they choose to go off into the big wide world to fend for themselves. A lot of the time they think they can handle it, that they’re old enough to look after themselves. The sad reality is that very few are really ready. It’s a huge adjustment. They’re vulnerable and people take advantage of them.’

  ‘Why? Why did Chantel leave? Why was there no support for her just because she was eighteen?’

  ‘A number of factors, really. It depends on the level of care each person needs. Chantel was, shall we say, very independent.’

  Sue nodded. ‘She was from the day she moved here. She didn’t make friends very easy, kept to herself and was forever running away and not coming back; the police brought her back a few times.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Lyn took up again. ‘The moment she got a new boyfriend we didn’t see her for days.’

  Beth found herself feeling even sadder for the life this young girl led. ‘Why didn’t she have many friends?’

  ‘She was a bit of a… what can you call it without being disrespectful to the dead?’

  It was Sue who answered. ‘She was a bitch. Liked the boys, hated the girls. She’d sleep with anything for a bit of weed. Argued with the girls over anything and everything.’

  ‘What about her family, did she have any?’

  ‘Her mum was the same: would sleep with anyone for drugs, vodka or money. Took men home all the time, all hours of the day and night. She’d leave Chantel on her own whilst she was out drinking and picking them up. Chantel got put into care when she was six, after she’d told the teacher at school she wanted to be a whore like her mum.’

  Lyn nodded. ‘It’s sad, but true. You’d be amazed how many vulnerable kids are in dire situations—’

  ‘And then they end up idolising the parents who neglect them,’ Sue said.

  ‘Where’s her mum now?’

  ‘She died a couple of years ago; overdosed on Tramadol and vodka.’

  Beth nodded. ‘How sad.’

  The women shrugged. Sue said, ‘It’s life, just the norm. Well, at least it is for these kids.’

  Lyn asked, ‘When’s Chantel’s funeral?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Beth said. ‘At the moment we are keeping her at the mortuary until the police locate her next of kin and the investigation into her murder is complete.’

  She stood up. ‘Thank you for your time. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  She walked out, glancing at the girls, who were now whispering to each other and staring at her. Beth didn’t look back. She let the door slam shut behind her as she walked to her car and blinked back the tears for the girl who’d never stood a chance at life.

  Sixty-Two

  At home Beth poured herself a glass of wine, though she knew she shouldn’t have. It was becoming a habit, but she had little other way of relaxing and needed to take away the sadness inside her after visiting Dalton View. She stared at the cream envelope on the kitchen counter, the second one in a week in handwriting she knew so well. Her name and address were written in small, square, uniform block capitals. She sat down at the breakfast bar, drank a couple of mouthfuls of wine and waited for it to begin the familiar feeling of warming up her frozen insides. It took the edge off her permanently stressed state of being. She stared at the letter, willing it to spontaneously combust. It didn’t.

  How did he even have her new address? She’d ensured she wasn’t on the electoral register when she bought the house, had even registered the land in her mother’s name, though the deeds for the house were all hers. Slowly sipping the wine, she relished every single mouthful, swirling it around as if to numb her tongue, gums, teeth and lips. She wanted to numb every single living, breathing part of her body and hide from the pain that he’d caused her.

  The worry.

  The fear.

  She shuddered anew at the memory of that night. The crinkle of the thick plastic laid down to protect every available surface from her blood spatter. Now, she knew better than most how much hard work, preparation and clean-up was involved in cutting someone open. It was her job to help loved ones come to terms with the sudden, somewhat inexplicable deaths of their nearest and dearest. She liked to think that because of her the unexpected grief was made slightly more bearable.

  What was his excuse? She’d never asked, and didn’t want to know. But she could never come to terms with why he did it to her. What had she done to make him hate her so much? The sleepless nights where she tossed and turned wondering exactly how he’d come to despise her so much to want to kill her had almost sent her over the edge. She was an educated woman, how had she not realised or seen the warning signs that there was something very wrong with Robert? It had plagued her for years until she’d finally realised that none of it had been her fault. There was no way she could have known about the sick fantasies he harboured inside of his mind. She’d been an emergency doctor, great at piecing people back together but clueless about how deviant minds worked.

  She remembered his answers in the many police interviews and again in court, his voice echoing through her mind as she recalled his stark confession: ‘To stake my place in society, to become a collector.’

  She’d had no idea what that had even meant until the defence had brought out a dog-eared copy of a John Fowles novel called The Collector stating he wasn’t of sound mind, that he lived in a fantasy world brought about by a story he’d become obsessed with. A book; a bland-seeming item of little significance that had lain around the house; he had multiple copies of it. She’d teased him about it once, she remembered. She’d even seen him reading it in bed. She’d rushed home that night to research The Collector, to discover what was so damaging about a work of fiction. Horrified, and puzzled, she learned that The Collector had been the inspiration for a number of high-profile serial killers. Christ. How many long, sleepless nights she’d struggled to get her head around that one. He’d wanted to kill her because of a story he’d read? He’d planned to kill her for the enjoyment of it. He was a psychopath, the defence had claimed, acting out some long-repressed fantasy owing to uncontrollable desires. He wanted his name to be forever linked to that book, to the collector, nothing more and nothing less.

  Fingering the almost-empty bottle, she had an important decision to make: did she finish the wine and read his damn letter, or do what she always did? She crossed to where the envelope was propped on the worktop, staring at her. Snatching hold of it, she opened the drawer, threw the letter inside and slammed the drawer shut. Let it fester with the others. She wasn’t giving him the satisfaction, not even the slightest hint how she felt about his letters. She didn’t w
ant to know whether or not he was sorry: sorry! He could tell her he was sorry every hour for the rest of his life, it wouldn’t change the situation. She’d almost died because he’d wanted to kill her. Sending these stupid letters to her didn’t make her feel any better; he could never give her closure, if that was what he wanted now.

  Rinsing out the glass, she left it to drain on the side; she didn’t need to finish the bottle. What would it look like if Josh came back and found her in a drunken stupor on the sofa because she’d received a letter in the post that she hadn’t opened? It might not even be an apology; perhaps she was giving Robert too much credit. It could be a vile outpouring of his obsession. It didn’t matter. Celebrities got hate mail all the time, it didn’t mean they turned into a quivering wreck and never got on with their lives. Robert Hartshorn was her cross to bear; he had been her lover and her best friend until the day he’d decided to kill her, and then he’d become her problem. She placed her hands on her hips, determined now. She was going to make it her mission to put him out of her life for good.

  Sixty-Three

  Harry Dean looked bewildered, there was no other way to describe it: his collar unbuttoned, tie pushed to one side and his normally well-groomed hair was sticking out where he’d run his fingers through it so many times.

  ‘I’m sorry, officer.’

  ‘Josh, please call me Josh.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Josh, I don’t understand how you think we had anything to do with the girl you found. God rest her soul. I’ve never seen her before in my life.’

  Josh looked at Sam, who gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘We have had an anonymous tip that James was well acquainted with Chantel Price, that she’d been here on several occasions and, in fact, we believe that James was one of the last people to see her alive. The last confirmed sighting we have of her on record was that she was being driven away from here in a car with your brother.’

  Josh acknowledged Alex as she came around the corner. She took one look at the expression on her dad’s face and every ounce of colour drained from her cheeks. Harry turned to his daughter.

  ‘Do you know what they’re talking about? They’re saying some dead girl was seen here, leaving with James. By the way, where the hell is James?’

  Alex looked horrified, and Josh realised that they had pushed Harry to the limit.

  ‘Harry, let’s talk whilst my team does the search. Is James around? We really need to speak to him.’

  A voice very similar to Harry’s echoed around the reception.

  ‘Just what the hell is going on here?’

  Harry strode towards his brother, poking him in the chest with his index finger. ‘What have you done this time?’

  James shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Josh nodded at the two response officers who were waiting around. ‘If you’d be so kind as to take Mr Dean to the station and get him booked in.’

  James squared up to Josh. ‘What are you arresting me for?’

  ‘I’m not arresting you; I’m giving you the chance to come down and speak to me of your own free will, on a voluntary basis. If you don’t want to do that, then I’ll have no choice but to make it more formal. It’s entirely up to you.’

  James turned to Alex and glared at her, but she glared right back.

  He shook his head but followed the two officers out to their waiting van. Josh took hold of Harry’s elbow. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk, or would you rather be present whilst the searches are being conducted?’

  ‘Alex can take them where they need to go, I’d rather talk.’

  Josh followed Harry down the corridor to an office, while Sam followed Alex and the search team down to the mortuary.

  As Alex opened the door, she turned to face the officers behind her.

  ‘There’s a body in the middle of embalming; are you okay to work around him? My dad will go mad if you disturb it.’

  Sam nodded. ‘Of course, we’ll be very careful.’

  Sixty-Four

  The visitor walked towards the main entrance of the prison until the huge cream gates with rust spots dotted all over them were towering above him. The whole area was bleak; the huge coils of barbed wire running along the top of the fence were both impressive and scary against the backdrop of Black Combe fell behind it. He couldn’t help wonder why Robert had summoned him like this, out of the blue. Did he know what had happened? Had he read the news and realised what was going on? Was it a trap? He would find out soon enough.

  After he’d been through the security he was shown to the visitor’s reception centre and then led into the visit hall: a small, cramped room with a tea bar situated along the back wall. He sat at an empty table and waited for his old friend to be led in.

  As a crowd of inmates rolled through the doors, he saw no sign of him. About to stand up and leave, he looked up to see a final solitary figure walk through the doors. Not recognising him, he looked the other way, and stood up.

  ‘Sorry, had to wait for my meds and they don’t always get them to you on time.’

  He did a double take at the gaunt man with a scruffy beard peppered with grey and white.

  ‘Robert, my God. I didn’t recognise you. I thought this prison was supposed to be an easier ride?’

  Robert laughed, the sound wavering halfway as he began to cough and splutter. Finally he regained his composure enough to speak. ‘It is. It’s good to see you too, my friend. The past year has been much kinder to you than me. I’ve been diagnosed with emphysema and lung cancer. I’m afraid I don’t know how long I have left.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Are you having treatment?’

  Robert shook his head. ‘No, I don’t see the point to be honest. What good will it do if it’s only going to prolong the misery I’m suffering in here?’

  He had a point.

  ‘Is that why you requested a visit? To tell me you’re dying.’

  Robert shook his head: steel grey hair now, he noticed. ‘No, I didn’t think you’d be too bothered about my health. I wanted to know what was going on; I read the headlines about the girl in the grave and the missing girl.’ Leaning forward, Robert smiled at him. Clasping his fingers together, he cracked his knuckles and whispered, ‘I know that it’s you.’

  He was still for a moment and then he slowly began to shake his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure about that? I remember how we’d talk for hours over a bottle or two of Rioja. Loose lips sink ships, my friend. You’ve got the police running around like headless chickens. I really just wanted to thank you. I never thought I’d see her again, but now I have a couple of newspaper cuttings tucked under my mattress that I can stare at.’

  The visitor frowned at Robert. ‘You know that you should never have chosen such a difficult subject for your first kill. You should have gone for something a little more straightforward like I did. You were far too ambitious, look where it got you. You should have waited until the room was ready, until you had a safe place to keep her like we’d discussed. But you let your arrogance get in the way of your common sense. Stupid, really, for such an intelligent man.’

  Robert sat forward, his spine straight, his clasped hands now tightly clenched fists.

  ‘I was always going to go back and finish what you started. You didn’t think that I would let her go? She’s mine now and there’s nothing you can do about it. She’s been ever so lonely since you messed up her life. I’ve been getting to know her quite well.’

  Robert’s face burned red, and before he knew it he had lunged across the table, throwing himself at him. Shouts echoed all around them, a cacophony of scraping chairs and cheers as the other prisoners all turned to watch the show. The effort of launching himself across the table was clearly far too much for Robert; he began to cough so hard he couldn’t catch his breath. Three guards ran over to restrain him, and he fought hard against them despite the fact that he was almost suffocating.

  The visitor stood up, brushed himself down and
apologised to the stunned family nearest. Walking calmly past Robert, who was still thrashing against the guards’ grip, he made his way to the exit without looking back.

  Sixty-Five

  Josh hadn’t turned up last night and Beth had struggled not to text him to see if everything was okay this morning. She’d lain in bed wondering if he’d gone back home to Jodie. No, it was more than likely he’d pulled an all-nighter at the station. Maybe they’d found the missing girl. God, she hoped so. And if they hadn’t called her out it would mean the girl was still alive. As she browned some bacon under the grill, her phone began to ring.

  ‘Morning Ms Adams, it’s Steve from Safe & Secure. I’m sorry I never got to yours yesterday, I have some trouble with the van. However, I can call by now and get your camera up and running if you’d like?’

  She looked at her watch; she had an hour or so to spare before she needed to get to work. ‘That’s okay, I’d cancelled anyway, did they not let you know? Thank you, that would be great.’

  She flipped the bacon, toasted a bagel and poured boiling water into the cafetière. Before she could load it onto a tray, the intercom buzzed. She answered it, surprised to hear Steve’s voice already. Opening the gates, she watched as he drove through. He had a different van from the last time, so at least he wasn’t bullshitting her. She hated nothing more than being lied to. She’d much rather him have say he couldn’t be arsed and had sacked work off for the day than lie to her.

  She opened the front door as he strode towards her, smiling.

  ‘It’s a lovely day again. This won’t take long then I’ll be on my way.’

  She stepped to one side to let him in, closing the door behind him. Letting him get on with his work, she sat and ate her breakfast, feeling slightly guilty.

  ‘Would you like a bacon sandwich and a coffee?’