by Kathy Shuker
Claire learnt all this a few days later, after Timothy Pennyman had formally admitted killing Gilly and burying her in the clearing. After the police’s rapid initial response, those days felt as if they passed in slow motion, the procedures that followed interminable. Tim had asked if he could see Claire because he wanted to explain himself to her but she refused to go. She couldn’t imagine listening to his excuses. Tim had always been a good talker and he had a way with him, clever at winning people over; she wasn’t going to get drawn in like that. In any case Lyn James took the time to sit with Claire over a cup of tea and tell her his whole story.
Tim said he was walking back to his house that afternoon when he saw Gilly leaving it. And he could tell from her behaviour that she had found his spare key under the stone at the back and had been inside. When she heard him she turned furtively to look at him and then ran off down the footpath through the woods, the one that led to the clearing. Tim hesitated for a minute or two, undecided, but he had noticed that she was holding something in her hand and he was sure that she’d taken it from his house so he ran after her. She was fast, he said, and obviously knew the track well. He wondered if she’d been in his house before and made a mental note to lock everything up more thoroughly in future.
When he caught up with her she had already reached the edge of the clearing. He grabbed her by the arm but she turned suddenly and twisted out of his grip to face him, all the while backing away, holding one hand behind her back.
As she edged back, Tim crept forward. ‘You’ve got something of mine, haven’t you, Gilly? You’re going to give it back, aren’t you?’
‘You’ve been taking naughty pictures of Laura,’ she said accusingly. ‘I’m going to show mummy what you’ve been doing.’
‘They aren’t naughty, Gilly. They’re like those paintings you see. You know - those paintings of ladies with no clothes on? They’re artistic and beautiful, aren’t they? Well, Laura looks like that in her photographs. She’s a pretty girl and I wanted to show that. Doesn’t she look beautiful in the pictures? So come on, give me that one back please.’
But Gilly wasn’t convinced by his argument and she refused to hand the photograph over so he lunged for her and wrenched it from her grasp and she began kicking him crossly, trying to get it back, fighting with him like a wild cat. And he was rougher than he intended in pushing her away. Somehow he managed to twist her awkwardly while her head was wedged under his arm and the next thing he knew she had gone limp. He laid her on the ground but she wasn’t breathing. She had no pulse either and the angle of her head was all wrong. He was stunned. Devastated. She was dead, just like that. He must have broken her neck and he didn’t know what to do.
He froze, panic-stricken, then forced himself into action and ran back to the house to get a spade, quickly digging a grave and burying her further up the clearing, taking just enough time to thoroughly cover his tracks. The leather wrist strap must have fallen off when he was putting her in the grave and he didn’t notice it until later when there was no way he could risk going back to find it. He had to leave it there.
Then he hurried back to the house, cleaned up the spade and - so he wouldn’t be seen - took the long route round the back of The White House to get to the nursery. When he got there, he pretended he was only five minutes late and said the time. He knew Charlie never wore his watch and didn’t bother much when he was working so he would take it at face value. Tim had already made tea and chatted for a while with Charlie by the time Claire’s phone call came through. He made a big point of searching the nursery and beyond for the little girl who had disappeared.
‘He insists that he’s really sorry,’ Lyn added. ‘He said he loved Gilly and he wouldn’t have hurt her for the world. She was just like you at that age and he said he has great memories of being with you when you were both kids.’
‘He told you to say that?’
Lyn shrugged. ‘I thought maybe you’d want to hear it.’
Claire was silent.
‘That’s what he says happened, anyway,’ she said, after a pause. ‘But we’ll never know the truth, will we?’
Lyn regarded Claire kindly. ‘We’ll know more when we get the full report from the pathologist.’
Claire nodded. The story sounded plausible and she wanted to believe it. She wanted to think it had happened that quickly, that Gilly’s last moments were lived in that feisty way she had and not in fear. She might learn to live with that.
She asked about the practicalities of the legal proceedings, about how soon the body might be released so she could bury Gilly properly and Lyn promised to keep in touch. Getting up to go, the police officer paused by the door.
‘About the hair slide,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t believe you, it was more that…’
She hesitated and Claire interrupted.
‘Forget it. I wouldn’t have believed me either. And whatever we’d done, it wouldn’t have made any difference to Gilly by then would it?’
‘No… but I’m sorry it turned out this way. Tell me, is Laura all right? I suppose she does know?’
‘Yes, she knows. She’s upset of course, but she’s all right, thanks.’
The officer left and Claire was left alone with her conflicted thoughts.
*
‘You know I’m not a great cook,’ Adam said apologetically, pouring Claire a glass of white wine. ‘I bought a couple of pizzas. Is that OK? I’ve got some bags of salad and stuff too.’ He took a sip of wine himself. ‘Oh, and some fancy bread. And there’s raspberries and ice cream.’
Claire grinned. ‘So you bought up the supermarket, basically.’
‘Believe me, it’s safer than my cooking. Do you mind?’
‘Of course I don’t mind. I’m grateful for the company - and the meal. Do you want any help?’
‘Er, maybe with the salads? They’re in the fridge. I put some bowls out. And there’s a bottle of dressing there on the top. The oven’s already hot so I’ll sort out the pizzas while you do that.’
They worked companionably in his kitchen, saying little. Adam flicked Claire an occasional glance, wondering how she was but scared to ask. He hadn’t seen her for several days, hadn’t wanted to fuss and recognised that she needed some space. He wasn’t sure, in any case, how keen she would be to see him or to keep their friendship going. It had been born out of a difficult situation which perhaps she would prefer to forget. But he had seen her going back into work at V and C that morning and had made a point of going in to invite her over. Now their silence felt surprisingly comfortable. There was none of the charged atmosphere there had been of late with Zoe.
‘So you’ve parted with Zoe?’ Claire said now, as if she’d read his mind. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes. We’re still friends. Better to quit while you’re ahead.’ He hesitated. He’d heard rumours and didn’t know which of them to believe - if any. ‘How about you and Neil?’
‘I’m afraid there is no me and Neil any more. There are lines, aren’t there…’ She frowned. ‘…boundaries you can’t cross and hope to survive?’ She shrugged, tossing the salad in the dressing one last time and putting the spoons down. ‘And we haven’t.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I.’
He slid the two pizzas into the oven.
‘Ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Let’s sit down with our drinks till they’re ready.’
He saw her look around the living room as she sat, her gaze lingering for a minute on the remaining photographs on the wall but she made no comment.
‘Didn’t I see you go over to Jane’s unit today?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I wanted to apologise. I gave her a hard time for a while there. I thought…well, you know what I thought. But I am grateful to her for finding Gilly. Do you think she really sensed her there or was it just the flowers that gave it away?’
‘Who knows? She probably doesn’t know herself.’
Claire hesitated. ‘Eddie told me something abo
ut her before all this blew up, you know, something which made me wonder, briefly, if she was guilty after all. I wasn’t sure if it was true or just more of the usual gossip. So I asked her.’ She paused again. ‘She lost a baby to cot death, Adam. Did you know?’
He shook his head.
‘Apparently she got very depressed. Then one day when she was out shopping, she saw a toddler separated from his mum and she took his hand and just walked away with him. A moment’s madness. The little boy was fine but she’s been trying to make up for it ever since, she says. I felt awful for her and for all the things I thought about her.’
‘You weren’t to know.’
‘I suppose not - but I think she’s more than made up for it now, don’t you?’
Adam drank some wine. Claire was staring at her glass. She had drifted off into a world of her own. It was the second time she’d done that since she’d arrived.
‘Any news about a funeral?’ he asked.
She looked up. ‘Yes. Some. They haven’t released Gilly yet but they said they will shortly, so I’ve started looking into it. I’m going to bury her with her grandfather in the graveyard here. They were very close.’
‘Are the press driving you crazy? I saw the story’s been all over the news.’
‘A bit. They’re pestering for my story but…’ She shook her head. ‘…I don’t want to go there. The money would be useful of course, but everything else about it is a nightmare and there’s Laura to consider. I won’t do it.’
They ate at the table in the kitchen, chatted about Adam’s work and the restaurant that was opening up at the end of the village which they both thought a huge gamble, and they talked about Laura. He asked how she was coping.
‘She seems to be OK. She’s got a good circle of friends and she’s away from here, that’s the main thing.’
‘And you?’ Adam pushed away his plate and leaned back in the chair, cradling his second glass of wine. ‘How are you?’
She smiled. ‘I’m OK too, thank you. Yes. OK.’
He thought maybe she was. Despite her clear sadness, there was an air of peace about her now.
‘I suppose it’ll be easier once you’ve got through the funeral.’
‘Yes, it will.’ She ran a finger around the base of her wine glass. ‘Then I’m going away.’
He frowned. Stupidly, he hadn’t expected her to say that and he was surprised at the depth of his disappointment. It also felt like she had told him as an afterthought and, considering all they had done together, he thought he deserved better than that. He leaned forward.
‘Were you planning to tell me?’ he demanded. ‘Or just slope off, without a word?’
‘Of course I was planning to tell you,’ she retorted. ‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’
He grunted and sat back, still frowning. ‘So where are you going?’
‘To Greece, to stay with my mother for a while, just to sort my head out.’
‘And then? You’re coming back here?’
‘No. Not to live.’
‘Oh. So where then? I was hoping we could, you know, stay friends, maybe…’ He hesitated. ‘…maybe see a bit more of each other?’
She smiled, cautiously.
‘Were you? I’d like that too. But I’m afraid I can’t stay here. Penny’s talking about opening another branch of her shop further west and asked if I’d be interested. She’s looking at some possible sites. Hopefully that means I’ll be able to live somewhere else in Cornwall, not too far away.’
Adam drank some wine and thought about this. He sniffed.
‘I’ve wondered lately,’ he said casually, ‘if having my studio at the Yard has been such a great move. With people wandering in and out and talking at me - generally about nothing in particular and certainly not buying anything - well, I think I’d get more done going back to a traditional private studio. Then I could work on my commissions in peace, and just supply galleries and arrange exhibitions the way I used to. What do you think?’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see what you mean. Maybe you’re right. But where would you do it?’ She looked round the room. ‘Here?’
‘No, I don’t think so. There’s nowhere suitable. But it’d be in Cornwall. I like it down here; it suits me. So long as it was somewhere I could paint. So perhaps we’ll end up in the same place.’ He paused. ‘What do you think? Will you get in touch with me when you get back?’
‘Of course. But the thing is, Adam…’ She grinned, mischievously. ‘…I could get in touch with you before then, from Greece. There’s this thing called the internet – maybe you’ve heard of it? If you’d like me to, that is?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
He leaned forwards and raised his glass and she did the same, clinking his glass with hers.
*
Two days later, Claire went back to the clearing. Originally she had wanted to be there when the police dug to find Gilly’s body but Adam had dissuaded her. He’d said she should remember Gilly the way she was. But the police had finished with the burial site now; they had finally filled it all in and removed their tape.
It was a sunny day. Birds sang in the tree canopy and an occasional butterfly fluttered past. A light breeze set the long grasses shivering and whispered through the trees. The clearing looked idyllic, a still and peaceful haven of solitude, as if it had never seen any trauma, as if such a thing would be unthinkable in a place like this.
Claire crossed to where Gilly had been found, paused a few minutes, then turned and looked slowly around. Odd images of Gilly came into her head: a tousle-haired toddler, giggling at some game Laura was playing with her; six years old and her face a picture of determination as she swam the length of the swimming baths for the first time; profuse tears and then a formal garden burial - at which the whole family had had to be present, wearing something black - when her pet hamster had died. Claire shook her head, cheeks wet with tears, but smiling at the memories.
She walked to the water’s edge. There were three mallards on the water today, eyeing her from the other side of the lake, weighing up the benefit in coming closer in search of food. She watched them for several minutes then turned and walked away.
Note
Many tributaries run into the River Fowey in southeast Cornwall, some of which are tidal in their later stages. The river in this story is not tidal but is based on those waterways and, like the village of Bohenna and its occupants, is entirely a creature of my imagination. I have tried to conjure up something of the nature of the area however, its small rural settlements and the beautiful, verdant yet sometimes enigmatic quality of the landscape.
Acknowledgements
Many people contribute to the writing of a book, sometimes with information they generously share or even with a simple word of encouragement. It is all valued. I would especially like to thank two friends in the police who kindly gave me their time and the benefit of their experience for the background to this novel. Any mistakes in procedure are entirely my own. I should also like to express my gratitude to the numerous British vineyards I have visited - all in the name of research - for the wonderful job they do, not only in producing some fine wines but also for taking the time and trouble to tell visitors how they do it. I learnt a great deal though, again, any mistakes in the processes described are, of course, my own.
A big thank you also goes to two ladies - both called Jane - who always diligently read and edit my work and keep me on the straight and narrow, and to family and friends, near and far, for their continued and precious support.
My thanks also go to Andrew and Rebecca from Design for Writers who produced the stunning cover design.
Last but not least, a thank you to my husband, Dave, for somehow managing to sound interested and be encouraging even when he is listening to a variation on the plot for the hundredth time. I salute his patience.
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Please see over for details of my other novels:-
Deep Water, Thin Ice
Kathy Shuker
When her husband, Simon - a flamboyant conductor - kills himself, Alex is mortified that she failed to see it coming. Confused, guilt-ridden and grieving, she runs away to Hillen Hall, an old house by the coast in Devon, abandoning her classical singing career and distancing herself from everyone but her sister Erica.
Hillen Hall, inherited by Simon from his mother and once a fine manor house, is now creaking and unloved. When Theo Hellyon, Simon’s cousin, turns up at her door, offering to help with its renovation, Alex is perplexed and intrigued, previously unaware that Simon even had a cousin. And Theo is charming and reminds her strikingly of Simon so, despite Erica’s warnings, it is impossible for Alex not to want him in her life.
But the old Hall has a tortured history which Alex cannot even begin to suspect and Theo is not remotely what he seems. So how long will it be before Alex realises she is making a fatal mistake?
Some reader reviews:-
‘…hard to put down’
‘…sorry to get to the last page’
‘…fine attention to detail brings the characters & their surroundings to life’
‘…an intriguing and engaging plot…I loved every minute of it’
Available now as an ebook and in paperback
Silent Faces, Painted Ghosts
Terri Challoner is a young London art curator - talented, ambitious and defensive. Brought up by her moody and taciturn father, her family’s past is a series of faceless blanks. Peter Stedding is an acclaimed and ageing portrait painter - brilliant, reclusive and short-tempered. His past contains too many faces, too many disturbing memories he has chosen to forget.