by Amanda Wills
Scarlett’s eyes widened. ‘I told her they’d won the lottery and that their house was full of antiques!’ The colour drained from her face so her freckles stood out more than ever. ‘I told her Georgia’s pony cost ten grand. I even told her the name of the house. Oh my God, Poppy. This is all my fault!’
‘Scar, we don’t even know if Shelley’s behind it,’ Poppy reasoned.
‘It has to be her. We should phone the police right now.’
‘Hold on, we can’t prove anything. We don’t even know if Shelley’s still in prison.’
‘How long did she get, can you remember?’
Poppy thought hard. ‘Three and a half years, I think. But sometimes people get let out early for good behaviour, don’t they? At least they do on the telly.’
Scarlett jumped to her feet. ‘Let’s phone the prison now and find out.’
‘They won’t tell us. Prisoner confidentiality and all that.’
Scarlett looked agonised. ‘So how will we find out?’
‘That’s easy. We’ll ask Hope.’
They discussed telling Hope their theory that her mum had masterminded a dastardly kidnap plot but decided against it.
‘It’s not fair on Hope,’ Poppy said. ‘Shelley Taylor has made her life miserable enough already. There’s no point worrying her until we know for sure that she’s behind all this, if she even is.’
Instead they sent an email full of stories about the Nativity, the ponies and the latest village gossip.
‘Just ask her casually at the end whether she’s still in touch with her mum,’ said Scarlett, peering over Poppy’s shoulder.
Poppy typed furiously, read the email through one last time and pressed send.
‘What’s the time difference between here and Toronto?’
‘Um. I’ll check.’ Poppy’s fringe fell over her face as she opened Google. ‘We’re five hours ahead. So, it’s just after eleven in the morning over there.’
Scarlett hugged her knees. ‘I hope she sees it soon. I promised Mum I’d be home by five.’
‘I’m sure she will. She’s usually really quick to reply,’ soothed Poppy.
‘And what if she says her mum has been let out of prison? What do we do then?’
‘That,’ said Poppy, ‘is the million dollar question.’
But by the time Scarlett left at five, there was still no email from Hope.
‘Text me if you hear. Promise,’ Scarlett said, her hazel eyes serious. ‘I’ll never be able to sleep tonight, worrying it’s all my fault.’
‘Don’t be silly. It wasn’t you who kidnapped Georgia, was it?’
‘Who’s kidnapped who?’ trilled a voice. Poppy’s heart sank. Charlie was standing in the kitchen door watching Scarlett pull on her wellies.
‘No-one has kidnapped anyone. We were just talking about a film we watched the other day, weren’t we Scar?’
‘Yep. It was about a boy called George who got kidnapped. We saw it at my house. It was really good.’
‘You never asked me,’ said Charlie, his bottom lip jutting out.
‘We would have done, but it was a twelve certificate. And you’re only eight.’ Poppy smiled sweetly, ignoring the daggers look Charlie gave her. He stomped out of the room and Poppy exhaled slowly.
‘That was a close shave. If Charlie finds out we’re in serious trouble.’
Poppy feigned a headache after dinner so she could stay in her bedroom, checking and re-checking her emails. At nine o’clock she gave up and got ready for bed.
‘One last time,’ she told herself, reaching for the laptop.
And there it was, sitting in her inbox. An email from Hope. She opened it and began to read.
Hi Poppy and Scarlett!
Great to hear from you! I’m glad the ponies (and Chester) are all well. I miss them heaps. It’s been snowing for the last couple of days in Toronto so it feels really Christmassy. They have turkey for Christmas lunch over here, only they have it with mashed potatoes, not roast potatoes. And Dad says we’ll probably go tobogganing on Christmas morning, which’ll be really cool.
I love it here, but a little bit of me wishes I could come and watch Chester in the Nativity. It sounds fun! Maybe one day I can come over for a holiday? Or you both could come over to Canada. That would be awesome!
Mum’s still in prison. Dad says she’s got at least another year to go. She writes to me once a week. She’s never actually said, but I think she’s sorry about everything.
Anyway, write soon. Send me some pics of the Nativity.
And have a FANTASTIC Christmas!
Love,
Hope xx
Poppy closed the laptop, slipped under the duvet and lay staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. When they’d realised Eastwood Park was the very same prison Shelley Taylor had been sent to Poppy had been convinced she must be behind the kidnap. She knew about the Cannings and their lottery win. She certainly had no compunction when it came to conning people out of their hard-earned cash. She’d spun an elaborate web of deceit to dupe countless good-hearted people into handing over money once before. And then she’d squandered it all on designer clothes. It wasn’t that great a leap from fraud to kidnap. Poppy remembered the bitterness in Shelley’s voice when Scarlett had told her about Claydon Manor and its expensive antiques and works of art. It was too much of a coincidence to think she wasn’t involved, wasn’t it?
And yet, according to Hope, she was still in prison. Poppy had no reason to doubt her friend. Hope had been as much a victim of Shelley’s greed as any of the people who had given money to her fictitious charity appeal, believing they were helping to send a girl with leukaemia to America for treatment.
Certain sleep was beyond her grasp, Poppy let her mind wander. She thought about her visit to Claydon Manor and how she’d stumbled on a real-life drama with the highest of stakes. She pictured Georgia’s heartbroken mum sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands. The gruff voice of Inspector Pearson as he questioned Poppy about the ransom note. The sad look on PC Claire Bodiam’s face when Poppy had asked her if Georgia would be OK.
She remembered the last time she’d seen Georgia. She’d been her usual scornful self, griping about her underdone hot dog and winding Scarlett up. Perhaps she was ordering her captors around in her usual superior way. Poppy hoped so. But she had long suspected that beneath the veneer of superiority Georgia was as insecure as she was. Perhaps, more likely, she had fallen apart.
Poppy wondered if the police felt as powerless as she did. What could they do, other than wait for the Cannings to scrabble together enough money to satisfy the kidnappers’ demands? Had they searched outbuildings, followed every lead? Poppy remembered her own hunch that Georgia was being kept at Witch Cottage. It seemed ludicrous now, just silly schoolgirl speculation.
A vision of Dartmoor Prison’s high granite walls lurked on the edge of Poppy’s consciousness. The prison dominated the skyline on that part of the moor, vast and impenetrable. Did Eastwood Park look like HMP Dartmoor? Could Shelley have escaped? And then realisation pinged in her brain and she wondered how she could have been so blind. She knew from bitter experience that criminals still planned crimes inside jail. Look at Jodie’s dad. He’d directed a phone smuggling operation from his cell after he’d been jailed for fiddling the books at work. Just because Shelley was in prison didn’t mean she had nothing to do with Georgia’s disappearance.
She had the local knowledge and the motive. And, thanks to her time inside, she also had the criminal contacts.
Poppy sat up in bed, all thought of sleep forgotten. If she was right, and Shelley was behind Georgia’s kidnap, where would she hide her?
Chapter Nineteen
Snippets of conversation floated around in Poppy’s head. Tory telling her indignantly that Jimmy Flynn and his parents had been forced out of Rose Cottage. George Blackstone muttering he had bigger fish to fry. The old farmer was supposed to be doing up both cottages to sell. But did the beaten-up red truck
parked behind Flint Cottage belong to the builders, or was there another, far more sinister reason for its presence?
She reached for her phone and texted Scarlett.
Are you still awake?
The phone pinged in seconds.
Yep. Can’t sleep. Why?
Think I know where Georgia is.
You’re kidding me. How?
Just put two and two together and came up with about forty-six.
Are you gonna call the police?
Poppy closed her eyes and deliberated. Should she head straight downstairs and tell her dad and Caroline her theory? Leave it to the police to sort out? That would be the sensible option. But what if the police didn’t believe her? What if they did, and she was wrong? Poppy could imagine the toe-curling embarrassment if a fleet of patrol cars with their blue lights flashing screeched up to the place in the middle of the night only to find it glaringly empty. She needed hard evidence before she called them out on a wild goose chase.
No. I need to check I’m right first.
When’re you going, tomorrow?
Poppy tapped without thinking.
Tonight.
But it’s almost ten o’clock!
Poppy sprinted across her room to the window and peered outside. The stables and fields were bathed in the silver glow of an enormous moon. Of course, Charlie’s supermoon! It was so bright Poppy could pick out every tree and boulder between the house and the Riverdale tor. She tapped out another text.
It’ll be fine. It’s as light as day out there. I’ll wait until Dad and Caroline are asleep and take Cloud. He’ll look after me.
Poppy grinned when she saw her best friend’s reply.
You’re not going without us, OK?
OK. We’ll meet you by the gate to the moor in 40 mins.
Poppy dressed quickly and climbed back into bed. After twenty minutes she heard the lounge door click shut and the sound of her dad and Caroline climbing the stairs to bed. After another quarter of an hour she heard the familiar low rumble of her dad snoring.
Poppy padded across her bedroom, eased open the door and crept along the landing, tiptoeing to avoid the creaky floorboard outside her parents’ room. In the kitchen she gave Freddie a treat, pulled on her coat, flicked off the security light and slipped out of the back door.
As Poppy crossed the yard Jenny’s head appeared over her stable door and the donkey gave the softest hee-haw. Poppy rubbed her head and the donkey nibbled the sleeve of her coat. Chester, laying asleep in the straw, his legs tucked neatly beneath him, opened an eye, saw it was Poppy and went back to sleep.
Poppy could hear Cloud moving around in the stable next door. She grabbed his saddle and bridle from the tack room, shoved her hat on and let herself into his stable. He watched her calmly, as if nocturnal hacks were an everyday occurrence.
Once he was tacked up she led him out of the stable to the gate that led to the moor. Scarlett and Red were nowhere to be seen. Poppy tightened her girth a notch and swung into the saddle. She checked the time on her phone. It was a quarter to eleven. She hoped Scarlett hadn’t got cold feet. Suddenly the idea of riding to George Blackstone’s farm in the middle of the night seemed at best foolhardly, at worst downright dangerous. If the cantankerous old farmer caught them on his land there was no knowing what he might do.
Cloud’s head shot up. He sniffed the air and gave a low whinny. Poppy ran a hand down his neck and peered into the gloom. In the distance she could just make out the shape of Scarlett and Red. The chestnut gelding skittered left and right but Scarlett sat calmly in the saddle. At four, Red was still a baby and could be nervous out hacking. Goodness only knew what he was making of their late night ride. Poppy could hear Scarlett talking to him in a low, soothing voice. He whinnied when he saw Cloud and the two ponies touched noses.
‘He thinks I’ve totally lost the plot,’ said Scarlett. She grinned at Poppy. ‘And I think he’s probably right. Why on earth couldn’t this wait until the morning?’
Poppy wasn’t sure herself. ‘I suppose I thought it was best if we checked out the place under the cover of darkness. If there’s no-one there, there’s no harm done and we’ll leave it to the police to find Georgia.’
‘You still haven’t told me where we’re going.’
Cloud snatched at the bit and Poppy tightened her reins. He was as excited as Red to be out. She kicked him into a canter and called over her shoulder, ‘Flint Cottage, of course. That’s where we’re going.’
It was exhilarating to canter across the moonlit moor. Dartmoor ponies watched silently as they approached and sheep scattered like bowling pins. Now and then they heard the eerie screech of a barn owl. Once they saw the zebra-striped face of a badger peering out from a copse of trees. Poppy felt the thunder of their ponies’ hooves in time with the blood pounding in her temples. What would they find when they reached the old farm cottage? She patted her pocket to reassure herself she had her mobile phone and made a silent pledge to call the police at the first sign of trouble.
When the ponies’ flanks were steaming they pulled up and walked the last half a mile to the boundary of the Blackstone farm.
‘What’s the plan?’ Scarlett whispered.
Poppy realised she didn’t actually have one. She gave a helpless shrug. ‘I guess we need to check if that truck’s still parked there for starters.’
‘We can’t ride up the lane. They’ll hear the hooves on the tarmac. We’ll have to go around the back.’
‘You’re right.’ Poppy wondered why she hadn’t thought of that. ‘So, which way should we go?’
Scarlett halted Red. The moonlight had turned the chestnut gelding the colour of burnished copper. He fidgeted while Scarlett found her bearings. ‘I reckon if we follow that old stone wall it should bring us out at the back of the cottages, don’t you?’
Poppy had no idea. ‘Let’s give it a go.’
Like everything on the Blackstone farm, the old dry stone wall had long fallen into disrepair and Cloud and Red were forced to pick their way carefully through fallen boulders that peppered the close-cropped grass. Scarlett was right. The wall led straight to the back of the two farm cottages. The two girls fell silent as they drew nearer.
The back garden of Rose Cottage was as neat as a pin. A rectangle of lawn was sandwiched between two long borders of winter-flowering pansies. Poppy felt her breathing quicken when she saw a shadowy shape in the middle of the lawn. She gripped Cloud’s reins tightly and was about to call a warning to Scarlett when she realised it was only a washing line hiding inside a green plastic cover.
The back garden of Flint Cottage was a choking tangle of brambles and overgrown shrubs, edged by an ancient wire stock fence that sagged pathetically like an old string vest.
‘Look!’ hissed Scarlett, pointing to fresh tyre tracks that looped up to the back fence and stopped abruptly right in front of them.
Poppy halted Cloud, her eyes searching for the truck they’d seen parked behind the cottage the day before. Shapes shifted in the silver light. Two oil drums, rusty with age. A roll of roofing felt as black as bitumen, leaning against a towering pile of rubble. An antiquated lawnmower that looked as though it had spluttered and died decades before.
But no beaten-up red truck. Wherever it was, it wasn’t here.
Chapter Twenty
Moonlight glinted off the windows of the two farm cottages, but otherwise they were in darkness.
‘What do we do now?’ said Scarlett in a low voice.
‘I’m going to take a closer look.’ Poppy jumped out of the saddle and handed her reins to Scarlett.
‘Be careful!’ Scarlett’s eyes were as round as orbs.
Poppy gave her a quick smile and headed for the back garden of Rose Cottage. She gave the wooden gate a tentative tug, exhaling softly as it swung open.
To her relief, the security light at the back of the house wasn’t working and she slipped across the lawn like a sylph to the patio doors. Cupping her eyes, she stared int
o a long, thin room that stretched the length of the house. The Flynns had probably used it as a lounge diner but it was now completely empty. Poppy sidled along to the kitchen window and peered inside. There was no sign of life. The surfaces were clean but bare. The only sound came from the drip, drip, drip of the tap.
Poppy glanced at Scarlett. She had jumped off Red and was pointing to the back of Flint Cottage. Poppy ran over to her.
‘There’s no-one there, Scar. I’m going to check Hope’s old house.’
‘There’s a hole in the back fence, look. We’ll be waiting in the garden. Don’t be long. I’m getting really creeped out.’
Poppy nodded and climbed over the fence dividing the two gardens. She remembered the first time she and Scarlett had visited Flint Cottage. They’d taken a tin of chocolate brownies, keen to welcome the newcomers to the village. Hope had soon become a friend, but Poppy had never trusted Shelley. And her instincts had proved right.
She forced her way through the waist-high weeds, tripping over an old milk crate, until she reached the kitchen window. To her frustration the blind was drawn. She crouched down and peeped through the microscopic gap between the window frame and the bottom of the blind. Unlike Rose Cottage, the work surfaces in Flint Cottage were strewn with empty food packets, old teabags and dirty mugs and plates. Poppy’s breathing quickened. Had the builders left it like this? Or had someone else been here?
She edged along the back wall to the dining room window. The two rooms hadn’t been knocked through like the ones in Rose Cottage. Poppy wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or anxious when she realised the curtains were open. She took a deep breath and stared into the room. It was empty, save for a cheap dining room table and four chairs.
Poppy was so busy trying to see if she could peer into the hallway from the dining room window that she didn’t hear Scarlett and the two ponies approach. The first she knew they behind her was when Cloud gave her a business-like nudge.