33 Women: A gripping new thriller about the power of women, and the lengths they will go to when pushed...

by Isabel Ashdown

  Traditionally, birthdays at Two Cross Farm were a low-key affair, and so on the day of Seed’s eighteenth it came as a surprise when Fern called us all to the art studio after Seed and Susan had left for market.

  ‘The past few years have been far from easy for Seed,’ she reminded us. ‘For one so young, she has encountered more trials than most, but this, we can be sure, will ultimately make her a stronger, wiser and more insightful sister. She is an example to us all. Today, we will mark her official entry into adulthood, so let us show her the importance of her role within the community.’

  The applause was unanimous.

  For the remainder of the morning, the entire community downed tools to turn their labours to decking out the art studio, and to the production of rare treats and entertainment. There were cakes to be baked, bunting to be hung, winter flowers to be picked and arranged. Had this been a special party for any other one of us, perhaps jealousies would have reared up, but this was Seed, and a growing atmosphere of celebration vibrated through the house and gardens. Fern dashed about in the sleety rain, calling out orders, and inwardly I smiled to see her among the group, so animated, so full of vim.

  ‘Bramble! Do you think someone could make a branch wreath for the door?’ she called to me from the path as I entered the studio carrying armfuls of winter flowers. ‘I’ve put a few more sisters on baking,’ she added distractedly. ‘And Kathy’s putting together a short harmony to welcome her when she arrives.’ She gave me a thumbs-up sign and disappeared inside the house, leaving a sprinkling of her energy in the damp February air.

  In some ways, I reflected, at almost fifty now, the years had barely changed Fern, cocooned as she was inside our safe walls, but at nearly sixty I hadn’t fared so well with the passing of time. How was it that some women grew more vibrant with age, while others would fade and wilt? It was clear that Seed possessed that same timeless quality, her radiant intelligence growing deeper and brighter with every passing year, and I wondered if it was a result of the increasing time she spent with our leader these days, or pure genetics. As the rain made music on the tin roof of the art studio, I set to work on a bay leaf wreath, and said a quiet prayer of thanks that Seed was still in our lives, that she was happy and healthy – and alive.

  When Susan and Seed returned after lunch, still shivering from hours spent on the damp market stall, they were ushered directly to the art studio at the rear of the house, where Seed was met by a rousing rendition of ‘Ave Maria’ and a roar of whooping cheers.

  For long seconds, the poor girl hid behind her hands. The other women swooped around, hugging her, foisting cake into her hands, kissing her head, helping her out of her winter coat and wrappings as Fern looked on with pride. Normally so poised and unshakeable, Seed was quite overcome, and from my distance I felt, as I increasingly did those days, shut out of her sphere, physically unable to reach through the wall of affection that surrounded her. Susan too was pushed aside, and I waved to her across the room, noticing how tired she looked, how dark the circles were beneath her eyes. As she returned my wave, her face broke into a smile and I felt grateful for the friendship she shared with Seed, for the difference she’d made to all our lives.

  ‘Sisters!’ Fern climbed up on a chair at the far end of the central workbench, raising her voice over the rain that lashed against the roof and windows of the studio. ‘Sisters! Let the poor child go now!’

  She waited while the women dropped back. All was quiet inside the studio, and with the rain now pelting harder against the glass, obscuring the world beyond, I had the strangest sensation that we might be the last remaining women alive.

  ‘Sisters, this is an important day,’ Fern said, one hand clenching the fabric of her tunic, making a fist at her heart. ‘Not just for Seed, who is now grown, but for every one of us and for the future of Two Cross Farm. As you are all aware, Seed has been here from the outset, from the very conception of Two Cross Farm. She is our youngest Founding Sister.’

  Seed stood at the far end of the large bench, the space around her intensifying the effect of her uncertainty. Nervously, her hand went to the scarred side of her face, cupping her cheek in a habitual soothing motion.

  ‘Sisters, we are none of us immortal, and one day I will need to hand the role of custodian to someone deserving and right. When that time comes, your new custodian will be Seed.’

  There was raucous applause, before one woman, Judy, a resident of less than a year’s standing, called out delightedly, ‘When?’ and was rewarded with a fierce glare from Regine on the opposite side of the room. It was one thing to be pleased with the news; quite another to sound so impatient for the change.

  Fern gave a slow bow of her head, her eyes seeking out the other Founding Sisters: Kathy, Regine, Susan and me. ‘What is our number, sisters?’ she asked.

  ‘Thirty-three,’ the entire group replied, in unison.

  ‘When Seed is thirty-three years old, she will take over. And in the intervening years you are instructed to treat her as my second-in-command, as custodian-in-training. Anything you would bring to me, you can take to Seed. You will afford her the respect that she deserves, and consider her your second leader in all but name. She will be my shadow.’

  When the room fell silent, Fern raised her palms and broke out that wide, charming smile which poured light and warmth over its recipients. ‘To Seed!’ she called out, loudly, joyfully.

  ‘To Seed!’

  As we filed from the art room to return to our duties, I glanced back at our youngest sister, now in a huddle with Susan, Kathy and Fern, surprise writ large across her sweet damaged face, and I felt myself fading away. Who was I now? What was I? I had once believed I was Fern’s second-in-command, I thought with some degree of detachment. But her plan for Seed was the right one, the one we always knew was to come. So, what was it I was struggling with? What was it that wounded me so deeply?

  Then it hit me, as I took one last look at Seed across the room. She no longer needed me, no longer came to me first to share in her celebrations. She had her room-mate Susan now, for companionship, and she had the support of the entire community for everything else. I had nothing unique to offer.

  Catching me watching, Fern gave me a solemn nod, and I fell into line with the other women, gently directing them back to their labours.

  As I walked alone across the garden path, I wondered how happy our women would be about their future if they knew what we Founding Sisters knew. If they’d seen the things we’d witnessed together, harboured the secrets we’d shared, perhaps they wouldn’t have applauded quite so fervently.

  16. CELINE

  Present day

  When Celine arrives back at Belle France after her meeting with Georgie on Friday afternoon, she catches the tail end of a conversation Pip’s in the middle of, and can’t help but eavesdrop as her sister’s voice carries from the room where she’s taking the phone call.

  ‘No,’ she says, resolutely. ‘I’m not giving it to you … Because you’ll only come down here and make trouble.’

  This has to be Stefan, Celine thinks. Other than her, Stefan’s the only other person she can imagine Pip speaking to so bluntly.

  ‘Of course they’re fine. I don’t know why you’d suggest they’d be anything else! They’re always fine! It’s me who’s not fine, Stefan … Why? Because I haven’t been fine for years! Because you – you – I can’t even—’

  Celine feels dishonest, lurking in the hallway in silence, not announcing herself. As she proceeds towards the living room to make herself known, Pip’s voice rises in pitch.

  ‘If you do, Stefan, I swear to God I’ll call the police.’ There’s an icy quality in Pip that Celine has never heard before, and a quiet, terrifying tone of dread. As she ends the call, Pip spins to face her sister, alerted to the sound of her presence in the room.

  ‘Where are the girls?’ Celine asks, casually dropping her rucksack, not wanting Pip to know her call was overheard.

  In a second, Pip�
�s expression shifts from startled to serene. ‘They’re upstairs! I found them a nasty plastic racing track in the charity shop this afternoon and they’re trying to put it together in the spare room.’

  Celine fetches a new bottle of wine from the rack. ‘Who was that on the phone?’

  ‘Oh, just Stefan,’ Pip replies breezily, accepting the glass Celine hands out to her. ‘Wanting me to kiss the girls goodnight for him. Anyway, tell me all about your day!’ And just like that the conversation is diverted, brushed beneath the carpet, as Celine updates Pip on Una’s news that the reopening of Vanessa’s case has been officially approved.

  By late evening, leaden skies open in a torrential downpour, and with Una back home in Kingston for a couple of days the sisters spend a strangely idyllic housebound weekend with the girls, baking and watching TV, and even managing to rustle up a half-decent Sunday roast. There are echoes of their teen years, when Celine suddenly found herself guardian to her two younger sisters, but it’s not in a bad way. She’s starting to remember some of the good things about that time too: those lazy days spent together on the sofa, rain lashing against the high sash windows, the world beyond them shut safely outside. Late nights eating cobbled-together meals and last-minute school uniform panics; hours spent styling each other’s hair or painting their bedroom walls in garish and ill-advised colours. It really hadn’t been all bad, had it?

  Now, with Vanessa’s case finally starting to move forward and a fresh week ahead of her, Celine stands in the doorway of the living room, watching her sister and the girls curled up on the sofa in front of Jungle Book, and thinks that she feels something near to peace. It’s good to be close to Pip again, and the intense affection she has for her nieces grows by the day. Perhaps, if they can solve the mystery of Vanessa’s death once and for all, she’ll be able to sort herself out and get on with her life, but this time with Pip in it.

  On Monday morning, as Celine meets Una and signs in at Lewes police headquarters, her mind is still on Pip, who has stayed behind, planning a trip on the pleasure boats with Olive and Beebee.

  ‘Did you update your sister?’ Una asks now as they sit in reception waiting to be shown up to DI Aston’s office.

  ‘Yes, but I played it down a bit, to be honest,’ Celine answers. ‘I guess I don’t want to raise her hopes too high if we only have to dash them again after this meeting. I think she’s got a lot on her plate at the moment.’

  ‘Stefan?’ Una asks.

  Celine shifts in her seat, returning a quizzical look.

  ‘Well, there’s something going on, isn’t there?’ Una says. ‘He’s been phoning her mobile at all hours, and I’ve heard her hang up on him at least twice. You must have noticed.’

  Celine could kick herself. She has heard Pip’s phone ringing frequently too, but she didn’t think to question it when Pip told her she’s been plagued by bogus sales calls lately.

  ‘She was in the middle of an argument with him when I got home on Friday night.’

  ‘Did you ask her about it?’

  ‘No.’ Celine is ashamed as she says it. ‘You know she’d only tell me to butt out if I did.’

  Una nods. ‘I’ve asked her about it a few times, but she clammed up, told me to take off my detective hat and leave her alone. But things haven’t been good between them for a while. You notice things when you live next door—’

  ‘Una!’ Dave Aston appears in the doorway, beckoning them through.

  They pass through the security barriers and along the halls and stairwells to his office, where he gestures them inside and closes the door.

  ‘Those your kids, Dave?’ Una asks, indicating towards a framed photograph of two handsome young men.

  ‘Huge, aren’t they? Nineteen and twenty-one. University’s costing me a fortune,’ he says. ‘Why do they all have to go to bloody uni these days? Not like us, eh, Una?’

  ‘Barely knew what uni was when I was nineteen,’ she replies, and she pulls out a chair and indicates for Celine to sit beside her as Dave takes the seat at his desk.

  ‘So,’ Celine says, impatient to get going. ‘What’s this all about?’

  Una gives Dave a smile that suggests Celine’s brusque manner is par for the course. ‘Well, I explained to you that Dave was on my team for a while, a few years back,’ she says. ‘And I don’t like to say he owes me a few favours, but—’

  Dave laughs. ‘All true,’ he says, ‘which is why I know I can trust Una with privileged information relating to these murder investigations, and why we’ll be approaching things a bit differently when it comes to gathering information from the women’s community at Two Cross Farm.’

  Celine turns to Una. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Dave, maybe we can start with Robyn’s case?’ Una pats Celine’s leg, reassuringly.

  ‘Yes, apologies, I’m running ahead. Celine, Una told you that we’ve had the post-mortem back for Robyn Siegle? It tells us she suffered a broken neck, and revealed fingertip bruising on her upper arms, which suggests a struggle. I’m fairly confident we’re looking at murder, or manslaughter at the very least.’

  This is more information than Celine has previously heard from Una, and the stark reality of it is more shocking than she’d anticipated. A broken neck.

  When Celine doesn’t answer, Una sits forward in her seat. ‘I’ve explained to Celine that the powers-that-be are now in agreement that the cases could be related – and that you’re officially connecting the two crimes.’

  Dave drags a file of papers across his desk, and places Vanessa’s postcard on the surface, with its windmill picture from Two Cross Farm. ‘This recent evidence you discovered at your mother’s home – suggesting Vanessa was a resident at the commune – is certainly cause for our interest. It’s a strong link.’

  ‘And the tattoos,’ Celine adds.

  ‘That’s right,’ Dave agrees, flipping through his papers. ‘At the time of her death, Vanessa’s tattoos weren’t considered to be relevant to the case – in fact, I think we can be sure they weren’t given any consideration whatsoever.’

  Celine catches a glimpse of a photograph in Aston’s pile. It’s a close-up of a tattoo against pale skin: solid, black, like a mark against a wrong answer. Please God, let that be Robyn, not Vanessa. Celine couldn’t bear to see that …

  Bringing herself back to the present, she swallows hard, remembering Pip’s upset over those tattoos back then, how she’d insisted they were completely out of character for their sister. The police hadn’t been interested at the time. ‘Why weren’t they considered?’ she asks now.

  ‘Well, a lot of people get tattoos these days. It’s not the least bit unusual – even fifteen years ago. Their presence would simply have been recorded on the post-mortem as a feature of the—’

  Celine braces herself for the word ‘body’, but Dave corrects himself just in time.

  ‘Of the victim,’ he says instead. ‘However, I’ve studied Robyn Siegle’s tattoos and they are identical to Vanessa’s: a pair of two-inch symmetrical black crosses on the lower abdomen, each adjacent to the hip bone. Then there’s the fact that they both met a violent death; both laid out with care near water – albeit twenty miles apart; and finally that prior to their deaths they had both been residents at Two Cross Farm.’

  ‘How is the Robyn Siegle case progressing, Dave?’ Una asks. ‘Can you tell us the basic facts?’

  He thumbs through his papers. ‘Well, we know that Robyn had had sexual intercourse shortly before her death, but there were no signs of violence in relation to that. Decent semen samples were recovered, but there’s no match on the database. We picked up a partial fingerprint on her clothing, but it’s not clear enough to record – so I’ve asked forensics to go back over her garments again, to ensure they haven’t missed any others. We’re in contact with Robyn’s father, Adam Siegle, and he has told us that Robyn had apparently been staying at Two Cross Farm doing research into her family history.’

  ‘Really?’ Una sa
ys. ‘Doing her family tree?’

  ‘I think so. Adam Siegle said Robyn believed her mother might have stayed at Two Cross Farm at some point in the 1990s, but he wasn’t sure whether that was true or not. Anyway, at the moment the main man in the frame is the ex-husband, Archie Chowdhury. Seed claims that Robyn had formally left the community very recently – the last anyone at Two Cross Farm saw of her, apparently, was when she departed for the train station in Arundel a few days earlier, to join Chowdhury in London.’

  ‘Have you spoken to this ex yet?’ Celine asks.

  ‘Not yet. We’re having trouble locating him. CCTV does show Robyn and Archie Chowdhury together at Arundel station forty-eight hours before her body was found, and Seed claims they didn’t see her at all in those two days that followed. Like Robyn, Chowdhury is a US citizen, but he works as a chef in London – it’s thought he moved out here a couple of months after Robyn, but quite independently of her. The details about their recent reconciliation are all a bit sketchy, so we’re hoping someone inside Two Cross Farm will be able to fill in some of the gaps for us.’

  ‘Are the Two Cross women under suspicion?’ Una asks. ‘I realise you’ve got Chowdhury in the frame for Robyn, and Falmer for Vanessa, but we – you – can’t let that stop you from considering other suspects, Dave. Right now, that community is your biggest common link between Robyn and Vanessa.’

  ‘I know the drill, Una. I learnt from the best,’ he replies, and with a smile she raises her hands in surrender. ‘Strictly speaking, no, they’re not under suspicion. Yet. We do, however, want to know more about Robyn’s living arrangements there, and her movements before she left the community.’

  Celine reaches for the postcard, turning it over in her hands. ‘And Vanessa’s case?’

  ‘There’s no doubt we’ll be up against it, with the age of the crime,’ Dave replies. ‘It’s never easy going back over old evidence, and often the vital piece is something we’ve not yet found, something outside of the case files. I’ve actually asked one of our journo contacts to leak the fact that we’re looking into Vanessa’s 2005 case again, to see if it throws up anything new.’