‘Like what?’ Celine asks. ‘I’ve been in contact with Vanessa’s best friend, if that’s any help? She confirmed that Falmer was violent – and she got a postcard from Vanessa, too …’
‘Thanks, we’ll certainly follow that up, but what I’m really hoping for is that the publicity will bring someone forward who knows where Jem Falmer’s been all these years. Witnesses who are resistant when a crime is first being investigated sometimes have a change of heart with the passing of time. Again, we’re hoping the Two Cross residents will remember her and tell us more about the months leading up to Vanessa’s death.’
‘So why aren’t you in there now, gathering evidence – interviewing that Seed woman?’ Celine demands.
Dave clasps his hands together on the table, fixing Celine with his steady gaze. ‘After her initial voluntary interview at the station, Seed is now refusing to co-operate with the police at all. She’s threatening to sue us for breach of human rights if we even suggest sending a man near the place. And it’s not as simple as sending in a female officer, because she, and the entire community by the sound of it, are completely anti-establishment.’
Celine rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. ‘This is unbelievable. She does know a woman died, right?’
Dave continues. ‘The other thing is, between you and me, the entire force is under instruction from the Commissioner to tread carefully when it comes to women’s groups at the moment, since a recent enquiry opened in the Midlands relating to police conduct at a number of women’s refuges there. We have to avoid any suggestion of heavy-handedness.’
‘So basically, you’re telling me your hands are tied,’ Celine says, bringing her palm down on the edge of the desk. ‘For God’s sake, it’s possible those women hold all the answers—’
‘Hang on a sec,’ Una says. ‘This is kind of where I come in.’
Dave smiles. ‘Una here has agreed to act as a civilian consultant – as a kind of liaison between the community and the police force. We think her past experience, her proximity and the fact that she’s, well, a woman, will give her an edge when it comes to finding out more about the goings-on at Two Cross Farm. If Seed understands Una’s there merely as a go-between, with no police powers, she may be more forthcoming.’
Celine shifts in her seat, heart racing. ‘And she’s agreed?’
Dave jerks his chin towards Una, so she can break the news.
‘Seed’s running it past the other Founding Sisters this morning,’ she says, eyes sparkling. ‘But we’re confident that’s just a formality. In theory, it’s all set for tomorrow. Celine, I’m going in.’
After Aston escorts them off the premises, Celine and Una walk down to the river where they’ve parked the car, neither speaking for several minutes as Celine registers the monumental shifts in the case. They stop to lean on the defence wall, looking out across the River Ouse as overhead the sky darkens with heavy clouds.
‘You know I’m coming with you, right?’ Celine says.
‘To Two Cross Farm?’ Una replies. ‘I hadn’t expected anything less, baby.’
17. BRAMBLE
Present day, Two Cross Farm
The Founding Sisters are gathered in Seed’s office: Seed, Regine, and me. It still saddens me to note the absence of Kathy and Susan, long gone, and Fern, missing in all but body. I looked in on her on my way up here, to see how she was doing, and the carers told me she’d had another restless night, having woken confused, chattering anxiously and pacing about. She looked small as a child, laid out in her bed, deep in sleep, her lips slightly parted, the skin of her jaw slack. Oh, Fern, I wanted to cry out. Where are you now, you great warrior?
‘I’ve just come off the phone with the police,’ Seed tells us now. She’s seated behind her desk, her arms folded on the top, resignation in the slope of her shoulders. ‘DI Aston tells me they’re getting very close to imposing a search warrant on us.’
For a moment no one speaks. Regine shifts uncomfortably in her chair, gripping its arms, bony-knuckled. Over the years, her body seems to have crumpled in on itself, and, although at seventy-three she’s over a decade younger than me, the newer residents treat her like a grand old dame.
‘Is he a decent fellow, the policeman?’ she asks, her once husky voice now grown papery. ‘Do you trust him, Seed?’
Seed inclines her head in thought. ‘Him specifically? I don’t know. The police in general? Not a bit.’
‘What happens if they do get a warrant?’ I ask. I’m thinking of all the things we don’t want the police to know about. I’m thinking of all the things we don’t want them to see. ‘Can we challenge it?’
‘I’ve talked through our legal position with Anneka, and she says if they get a warrant we’ll have no option but to admit them and help with their enquiries. She says the law is only on our side if they try to force access without a warrant, or if their behaviour is excessive once they’re inside.’
Regine shakes her head, her expression set grim. ‘Is there no other way, Seed? Think of all the women we’ve promised sanctuary. You know what happened last time a man—’
Seed raises a palm, silencing her, and I’m grateful for her quiet authority. We’re all afraid.
‘We’ve reached an impasse,’ Seed explains. ‘However, DI Aston has made a proposal, which I’d like to put to the group. There is an ex-police officer staying in the area – a woman. She’s retired, and therefore has no authority over us. Aston has suggested we admit her to the community as a go-between of sorts.’
‘A spy, you mean?’ Regine says.
‘A spy is only effective if they’re unknown to us, Regine. We know where this woman’s interests lie, and we will dictate where she can go and what we are prepared to answer. If we say yes to this, we can closely manage the situation – and we can ask her to leave when we’ve had enough. And, if the police are satisfied with our answers, there’s every chance they will back off and normal life can resume.’
For a long while, we sit in silence, disturbed only by the sounds of the spring blackbirds trilling out their mating calls beyond the open windows, the light of the evening shifting in the direction of the river. Seed’s focus is on the view too, where only an hour ago a small gaggle of journalists were still loitering with cameras at the ready. There is concern in her expression.
‘Aren’t you afraid?’ I ask, and I sense Regine’s attention intensify, perhaps equally anxious to hear her reply.
Slowly, Seed’s gaze returns to the room, and she smiles a little sadly.
‘I’m terrified,’ she admits. ‘I – we – all of us – have a lot to lose here. I’m angry and I’m sad and I’m scared in equal measure; but I’m certain enough of the police force’s intentions to know our options are limited.’
Regine shuffles stiffly to the edge of her seat and laces her fingers across one knee, the curve of her spine giving her the all-at-odds stance of an eager-pupil. ‘Then I say yes, sister. I’m with you: let the bitch in.’ Still the mouthy dame, after all these years. That’s what Tattooed Sandy used to call her, before she was ejected from the community for good.
‘Bramble, do you agree?’ Seed asks.
Reluctantly, I nod.
Seed picks up the telephone receiver, and Regine and I rise to leave.
As I reach the door, she calls my name. ‘Bramble? Start drawing up a list of things we need to do in preparation, will you? If we’re going to do this, we need to be whiter than white by the time this Una woman arrives. She’s going to turn over a few rocks when she gets here.’ She holds my gaze, unblinking. ‘We need to make sure she finds nothing beneath them.’
When the meeting ends, I leave the office and head straight down to the basement, where I instruct the laundry team to have the floors thoroughly bleached again. We’ve been over them a dozen times or more already, but it would be foolish to leave anything to chance.
18. CELINE
Present day
As they stand waiting outside the iron gates of Two Cro
ss Farm, Celine is suddenly gripped by nerves.
This has all happened so quickly – her mother’s death, Robyn Siegle, yesterday’s meeting with the police – she’s barely had a chance to think about what it means, or whether they’re putting themselves at risk. When they’d returned from Lewes last night, Una had read aloud extracts of Dave Aston’s file on Two Cross Farm, briefing them on the little that is known about the commune, and it is very little. All they really learned was that the commune was set up in 1976 by a small group of women sharing feminist ideals and describing themselves not as a refuge, but as a lifestyle based on sisterhood. While they know the current leader to be this woman Seed, nothing more is known about her – what her real name might be, where she originally comes from, or how long she’s been part of the community. Celine would be lying if she said she wasn’t intrigued, keen to dig deeper, but at the same time her stomach is doing backflips.
‘Do you think they heard the bell?’ she asks Una, her eyes drawn to a flower-filled wooden boat artfully moored at the far end of the lawns, looking as if the wind has swept it in off the river. Behind them, a couple of press vans are parked in the lane, and Una has already warned off two reporters, telling them they’re wasting their time if they expect any comment from the community.
She reaches for the bell rope again, giving it another tug, and as ringing echoes out across the otherwise peaceful gardens Celine has a strong sense that they’re trespassing, that this isn’t a place they should be. Is this a mistake? Should they just forget all about it, and head back home? She focuses on a spot beyond the gate, where a trio of hedge sparrows peck around the verge, picking up insects in the light drizzle.
Just as she opens her mouth to suggest Una phone Aston, Seed appears in the front doorway of the grand house, today wearing a forest-green tunic, an earth-coloured turban concealing her hair. She proceeds down the steps, gracefully crossing the drive in their direction, a ring of keys in one hand, a serene expression on her face.
‘Welcome!’ she calls as she approaches the gate, releasing the deadlock and sliding the bolt to beckon them in.
For a brief moment, Celine is struck dumb. She nods a closed-mouth smile and hopes that Una will lead the conversation now she finds herself so incapable. How should she behave in this strange woman’s company, in this strange place? In the gloom of the dreary morning Seed’s facial scars appear more livid, the worst of them confined to her jawline, licking like flames up the right-hand side of her face. Celine tries not to stare, and wonders when she last felt so out of her depth. Not for years; not since those days in River Terrace, after her mother had gone.
‘Welcome. You must be Una—’ Seed says, clipping the keys to her belt and clasping Una’s hand between hers, ‘and you must be Celine. Come inside, before you get soaked.’
She turns, thrusts her hands into deep pockets and breaks into a capable jog as the rain opens up at a pelt. Una and Celine sprint behind, heading for the open door of the house, and moments later they’re being led through a dark wood-panelled hallway and into a large old-fashioned kitchen filled with the smells of cooking and good-humoured conversation. The five or six women around the room each look up from their various labours, nodding warmly and offering greetings. None of them wears make-up or jewellery; none of them seems senior to the next. Except for Seed. She really does stand out.
‘Welcome,’ the women all say in greeting – just that one word – and Celine avoids looking at Una for fear that she’ll expose her bubbling disquiet. There’s something off; everything feels too serene, too functional by far.
Seed fetches two towels and hands them over. ‘You’re wet,’ she says. ‘We’ll do a tour of the house first, introduce you to some more of our women? Before we start, may I ask for your phones? It’s one of our rules, I’m afraid – no mobiles. They’re a distraction.’
Una takes hers from her jacket pocket, switches it off and hands it to Seed. Masking her reluctance, Celine does the same.
‘Good. Remind me to give these back to you when you leave, will you?’ She slips the handsets into her deep pockets and brushes her hands off, as though ridding them of invisible dirt. ‘I’m hopeful the rain will let up in the next half-hour, and then we’ll show you the gardens – our pride and joy.’
‘We’d really like that,’ Una says, appearing, unlike Celine, instantly at ease. ‘I love gardening, though not on your scale, of course.’
Celine remembers the small patch of courtyard at the back of Una’s place in River Terrace, filled with geranium pots and herbs and tomatoes that, of course, she must have nurtured and grown herself. She wonders why she’s never really thought of Una in this way, as someone whose life goes on beyond the small parts Celine knows about. ‘Yes, that would be really nice,’ she says, trying to join in, to find her voice.
Seed holds up a hand to attract the attention of the women across the room. ‘Sisters, has anyone seen Bramble? I was hoping she’d join us on the tour.’
A petite woman, perhaps in her fifties, dries her hands on a tea towel. ‘I think she was seeing to the Elders,’ she says in a broad Scottish accent. ‘I’ll go and take over from her.’ She passes through an adjoining swing door, affording Celine the briefest glimpse of an elderly woman reading in an armchair, before the door swings shut again.
‘Bramble can catch us up,’ Seed says, with a nod. ‘Shall we walk and talk? As you know, I’ve agreed to just two hours for this first meeting – to ensure we’re all aligned.’
‘Absolutely,’ Una agrees. ‘And please ask me and Celine anything at all. I’m sure you – quite rightly – feel cautious, knowing we’ll be reporting back to the police, but we want you to trust us. It’s important that you know we don’t mean you any harm.’
Seed leads them back into the hallway, and, as they head towards a large living room at the rear of the property, Celine is struck by the vast size of the place. The layout is similar in design to her mother’s but on a much larger scale. They pass several more closed doors, marked ‘pantry’ and ‘clinic’ and ‘rest room’ and ‘medic’, before reaching the living room, which, as at Belle France, looks out over lawns in the direction of the river. At Belle France you can actually see the river and path; here there is a wall of trees, and a hive of activity around the greenhouses and sheds at the far end.
‘Why you?’ Seed asks now, gesturing towards two upright armchairs on either side of a large lit fireplace. ‘Why did the police ask you, Una?’
‘As you know, I’m ex-force,’ Una replies as she takes a seat. ‘Retired.’
‘Detective?’ Seed asks.
Una nods. ‘They thought I’d be able to ask you the right kinds of questions, without pissing you off too much, I guess.’
Seed laughs, and it is a beautiful sound, low and unchecked. ‘Good. That’s good.’ She gazes at Una for what seems like a long while, thoughts visibly crossing her face. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m fifty-seven,’ Una replies.
‘The police force can’t have been an easy place for someone like you to build a career?’
‘Someone like me?’
‘A woman. A black woman at that.’
Now it’s Una’s turn to laugh. ‘People aren’t usually so straight-talking, but no, you’re right. I often had to work twice as hard as most of the men I came up through the ranks with, just to get noticed for the right reasons. I couldn’t tell you how much of that was down to my gender, or how much down to my colour – but it’s a fair assumption that neither helped my case all that much. Still, I had good parents – they never let me use either condition as an excuse, and I’ve stuck by that.’
‘Either condition. That’s good.’ Seed smiles. ‘Very good. Society does see being female as a “condition”, doesn’t it? As something to be cured or ignored.’
Celine is leaving most of the talking to Una, punctuating their conversation with unobtrusive smiles and small murmurs of assent, while she tries to get a hold on what it is she really feels about
this place. She takes in the layout of the room, noticing how two of the walls are covered, floor to ceiling, with framed black and white photographs of women. Some are close portraits, others distant shots; all look professional. A number are nudes. From the little she knows about photography, the pictures all appear to be taken on traditional film, but as most of the women are absent of make-up and dressed in the plain tunics that Seed favours, they are hard to date.
‘You’re admiring our gallery,’ Seed notices, rising to cross the room and lay a hand on one particular picture at her eye level. It’s a close profile of a dark-haired woman wearing a gypsy bandana, her eyes obscured by large sunglasses.
‘They’re incredible,’ Celine says. ‘How many women are there?’
‘Well, everyone who passes through is photographed,’ she replies. ‘Ever since 1976. Which means there are close to four hundred faces around the house – we long ago ran out of space in this room. There are more upstairs.’
Celine’s pulse races as she thinks about the possibility of finding Vanessa here, hidden among the portraits. ‘They look as though they’re all taken by the same person?’ she says, meeting Seed’s eye properly for the first time.
It is a steady gaze, and Celine is at once disarmed by the warmth she sees there. What is this woman hiding? is Celine’s overriding thought. What does that easy manner conceal?
‘Our founder was an award-winning photographer back in the seventies,’ Seed replies. ‘Her images of women won prizes in New York, Milan, San Francisco – she gave it all up to come here. We’re very lucky to have her.’
‘She’s still here?’ Celine asks. ‘At Two Cross Farm?’
33 Women: A gripping new thriller about the power of women, and the lengths they will go to when pushed... Page 12