The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel

by Kerry Wilkinson

  He turns back to the remains of his breakfast but I know it’s bravado. I cross to the table and rest a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. ‘She also told me to be nice to you because of...’

  For a moment, I think he’s going to shoot back with something sarcastic but he slumps a little lower in his seat and puts his phone face down on the table. He sighs and wipes his chin, whispering a barely audible ‘cheers’ before he pulls away.

  Chapter Six

  Living in Westby can be dull at the best of times but during the long, dark winter months, it’s no fun at all. Everything except for the main road through the village centre becomes covered in a layer of frost. Because there are so many trees, ancient stone walls and buildings, that ice can hang around for months. It’s like living in a perpetual shadow.

  I should be warm today. It’s a beautiful morning, the type that brings the village to life. All those fields that are out of bounds during those frosty months are blooming, the trees are bright and green, and all the tiny, labyrinthine lanes and paths that weave around the houses are accessible once more. When I was younger, this was the time when Westby would become my playground. I could spend an entire day outside with no money and yet still find a way to amuse myself. Admittedly, a phone with unlimited data is much more fun but still…

  I head towards the village centre, but take no particular path, sometimes doubling back on myself so I can remain out of the shade and in the sun. I’m still cold and have little feeling in my exposed fingers. An older woman walking her dog nods and smiles at me. I can’t remember her name but nod back anyway.

  There’s a small play park next to the newest estate in the village. Kids are shrieking with glee on the swings, roundabout and climbing frame. The noisy little sods. I stop momentarily to pluck some blades of too-long grass that’ll have the parish council up in arms, holding it to my nose, though there’s no smell.

  When I reach the village centre, I stop at the back of my father’s old newsagent. At one point, when I was still a kid, it was one of Westby’s focal points. It is sandwiched between a café and Mrs Patchett’s clothes shop, with a cobbled pavement at the front.

  One of my earliest memories is sitting on the floor inside, helping my father sort the magazine subscriptions. Villagers had their own cardboard folder in a pull-out cabinet behind the serving counter and I’d match the name on his list to that month’s magazines and then file everything away. He gave me fifty pence a time for helping which, in retrospect, means I was royally stitched up. He should have been hauled away on child labour charges.

  Not that it was about that: it was nice to spend some time with my father.

  It was almost three years ago that he died, a little after turning fifty. His newsagent once sold a bit of everything but those types of places gradually went out of fashion, even in our small village. The shop went out of business a year or so before he died of heart disease. Mum maintains he died of a broken heart having run the place for thirty-odd years – but, well, I don’t know… is that even a thing? I think she was more heartbroken than he was about the shop. She was the one who used to rant about chains and big companies muscling in. Dad simply shrugged and said that was life.

  Honestly? I think he was right. He was right about a lot of stuff. Starbucks announces it’s moving in, the weekly paper goes into crisis mode, villagers reckon it’s the end of all humanity – then, six weeks after it opens, they’re all in there sipping skinny lattes and marvelling at the breadth of the menu. Wondering why it took so long for a national coffee shop chain to move in. It happened with the Tesco Express, too. Residents were off down the High Street with placards, marching and protesting as if living here is worse than some war-torn African state. They were talking about boycotts, chaining themselves to railings and whatnot. The moment it went up, they were in there buying lottery scratch cards and pints of milk.

  I think some of the people from around here – particularly those who’ve been here the longest – live for that drama. When Sarah died a year ago, it was like Christmas for them.

  My father’s shop was bought by a developer who started to convert it into flats before running out of money. If I’m honest, despite ridiculing other people who live here, I feel a twinge of sadness whenever I see the building in the sad state it currently lies. The front doesn’t look too bad – except that the windows and doors are filled with wooden boards. It’s a far cry from the toys my dad used to display.

  I head past the shop and follow the main route towards Langham. It’s three or four miles from Westby, along a road that quickly becomes surrounded by tall hedges and overgrown trees. Buses run every hour but, on a day like this, it’s a pleasant walk. Before what happened to Sarah, village kids would think nothing of mooching through the lanes and fields to Langham and then catching a bus back later. There are all sorts of trails along the river and through the nearby woods but I’ve barely used them since Sarah’s body was found.

  Suddenly, today, I’m filled with a strange sense of invulnerability. What’s the worst that can happen to me now? I’ve already been drowned once and I’m still here.

  I’ve not been much of an explorer in the recent past but, at the moment, I’m looking for something – anything – that might spark my senses. I developed very mild hay fever a few years ago but the cut grass on the side of a farmer’s field does nothing today. Sunshine dapples through the trees on the edge of the woods, creating a wonderful show of light and dark – but it feels like I’m a girl in a painting. It’s there, it’s beautiful – yet it’s only in two dimensions. There’s no smell, no texture, no taste.

  When I check the time on my phone, I realise I’ve somehow used up the morning and so I head back towards the main road and follow it towards Langham.

  The cafés in Westby tend to be vintage-style tourist traps, with dainty cups that come with saucers. I’m not sure when or why saucers were the in thing – but I’ve pretty much resolved that the places that use them are not for me.

  Tape Deck is a café/diner/hangout on the side of the road halfway between Westby and Langham. Despite being a bus ride or up to an hour’s walk away, it’s long been the main spot for teenagers from both places to hang around.

  Except for a pair of people carriers close to the main doors, the car park is empty when I walk onto it. Tape Deck is a single-storey building that was once a petrol station. Whoever owns it built an extension and then painted everything in the style of an American diner – or what I assume is an American diner. I’ve only ever seen them on TV or in movies. The towering light-up board at the front that used to display the price of fuel now lists each week’s food specials. Today’s is apparently a corned beef hash burger with sweet potato fries, which sounds amazing until I remember that trying to eat makes me gag.

  After eyeing the board with a sigh, I head through the double doors, passing rows of Formica tables that are bolted to the floor. Two families are sitting at the front, chomping through burgers and fries. Four girls, four boys, two sets of parents in perfect symmetry.

  The counter is at the far end of the restaurant, with a wide board across the top displaying the menu. Off to the side is my favourite reason for coming here – rows and rows of audio tapes in their cases, the colourful sleeves pointing outwards. They’re stacked fifty or sixty high in long rows that run most of the length of the wall. Because whoever runs this place must have a severe case of OCD, everything is in alphabetical order, with 10CC – whoever they are – in the bottom left at one end, and ZZ Top – whoever they are – in the top right at the other. Underneath the tapes is a sign reading: ‘RIP Sony Walkman: 1979–2010’.

  In truth, I had no idea what a cassette tape was before I started coming here. Neither, I suspect, did many of the customers. When I once told this to Mum, she frowned and muttered something about ‘kids today’.

  Tape Deck only plays music from the time in which cassettes were mass-produced, meaning I’ve discovered all sorts of bands and singers I would neve
r have found otherwise. I love the colours, too. The wall is a mosaic of rectangular shapes and shades. Naomi and I can spend ages slouching in one of the side booths running through the names of the artists and then looking them up on Spotify.

  There’s no sign of Naomi, so I head to the counter and scan the menu, thinking about the things I wish I could eat. Before I can say anything, the lad at the till stammers something at me I don’t catch. When I turn to him, he is staring straight at me, eyes expectantly wide. He has black hair that is parted dodgily to the side, with a slim peppering of dandruff. He’s leaning slightly at an angle.

  ‘You want the usual?’ he asks.

  I have no memory of what ‘the usual’ might be but it seems as if he knows me. I have a vague inkling that I know him too – or at least that he’s some sort of acquaintance. He’s looking slightly over my shoulder, afraid of making eye contact. Behind him, there’s a slight chatter from the kitchen.

  ‘Sounds good,’ I nod. ‘Can I have some water, too?’

  I pay and he hands me a bottle of water, then stares at his feet while he tells me my food will be right out. I’m still not sure what I’ve ordered but I’m going to try to eat something again.

  After sliding into one of the booths next to the wall of tapes, I take out my phone just as a familiar blue Vauxhall pulls into the car park. One of the back-wheel hubs is missing and there’s a crusty shaving of rust on the front door. It feels like someone’s ringing a bell in my ear as my mind goes into overdrive, putting the pieces together.

  A young man steps out of the driver’s seat. He has spiky dark hair and is wearing sunglasses, with a football shirt, loose shorts and flip-flops. Mum asked if Robbie gave me a lift home and I said yes. I wasn’t sure but didn’t want to argue. This is Robbie and the Vauxhall is his car.

  I know the girl who gets out of the other side – Naomi. She’s my age and we’ve been friends for, well… ever. She’s one of those girls whom everyone would instantly think was some blonde Barbie princess if she could be bothered. As it is, she’s wearing a retro gaming T-shirt with a picture of a Gameboy on the front, plus knee-high stripy socks, Converse and denim shorts. She has thick-rimmed glasses and pigtails, with a Hello Kitty satchel angled across her chest. When she sees me in the window, she waves and starts to skip across the car park. Robbie towers over her but when he notices me, he stops on the spot and frowns. He scratches his head before catching himself, realising he’s being watched, and then follows Naomi, hands in his pockets, making quick glances in my direction.

  When she gets inside, Naomi slips into the booth across from me. She’s smiling, full of fun and games. Robbie stands with his palms pressed on the end of the table, staring at the tapes on the wall behind us and saying nothing.

  Naomi peers up at him and then shrugs. ‘Have you two fallen out?’ I look at Robbie and he looks at me – then it suddenly dawns a moment before Naomi explains herself. ‘I mean, you are still going out, aren’t you?’

  Robbie’s my… boyfriend. How did I forget? The moment Naomi mentions it, those memories of him and me flood into my brain. Of course he is. He’s still giving me a strange look, though. His eyes are narrow, his brows dipping and meeting in the middle. Before I can move, he leans forward sharply and pecks me on the forehead, then slides in next to me.

  Naomi doesn’t seem to have noticed anything untoward. She twirls one of her pigtails, eyeing the rack of tapes on the wall. ‘Why’d you walk?’ she asks.

  ‘Thought I’d try to clear my head.’

  She nods. ‘Fair enough. Ben’s not here, by the way. He’s got to work on his parents’ farm today because he was out yesterday. His dad’s on one again.’

  Ben… Naomi’s boyfriend. I have the full picture now. Naomi and Ben; Robbie and me.

  ‘What happened to you last night?’ she continues. ‘The last I saw, you and Rob were driving away.’

  I turn to Robbie, but he’s only half looking at me as he peers out the window. So Mum was right – he did drive me home. Was he the last person to see me before I ended up in the river?

  I nudge him with my elbow. ‘What happened last night?’

  He shrugs. ‘Not much, we—’

  ‘All right,’ Naomi interrupts. ‘I don’t need to know the gory details.’

  Before she can say anything else, the lad from the counter approaches with a tray of food. He glances quickly at Naomi and then looks away again, before sliding the tray across while not looking me in the eye.

  ‘Do you want your usuals?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes for me,’ Naomi replies.

  Robbie pats his stomach and grimaces. ‘Just some water.’

  The server risks a momentary look at me but instantly spins away when he realises I’m watching him. I notice his name tag this time – ‘ASH’.

  ‘He so fancies you,’ Naomi says as she pinches a piece of chicken from my tray. My ‘usual’ is apparently some sort of chicken salad with chunky croutons. Looking at it makes me feel sick, so I sip my bottle of water instead.

  ‘Who?’ I reply.

  ‘That Ash guy – the server. He’s always staring at you when he thinks you’re looking the other way.’

  ‘He doesn’t fancy me.’

  ‘Robbie?’

  Naomi turns to him but his attention is still out the window.

  ‘Huh?’ he replies.

  She waves a dismissive hand towards him, says to forget it and then points at my tray. ‘You not eating?’

  I start poking at the salad with a fork, lifting a shred of lettuce part way to my mouth and then lowering it. ‘I’m not that hungry.’

  Naomi steals another bit of chicken as I rotate the food around, giving the impression that I might be eating some. When nobody’s looking, I slide small amounts into napkins, which I ball up at my side. If I were one, it’d be textbook anorexic behaviour.

  Without warning, Robbie stands, clutching his stomach. ‘I’ve gotta go to the toilet,’ he says, before dashing towards the back of the restaurant. In the momentary silence, I dispatch a pair of croutons into a napkin, unseen by Naomi.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ she asks.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Did you argue last night? He was quiet when he picked me up and he’s being weird now.’

  I try to act casually, as if I haven’t noticed how guiltily he’s behaving. My memory is such a sieve that I don’t want to jump to conclusions – but he was apparently the last person to see me and now he can barely look at me. Is that how someone would behave if they’d literally seen a ghost?

  Naomi sits up slightly straighter as she nods over my shoulder. She speaks while barely moving her lips. ‘Don’t look now – but the Ravens of Doom have just walked in.’

  I don’t need to turn because three girls idle along on the far side of the restaurant and then stand next to a booth diagonally across from us.

  Rebecca Watts is in the building.

  She has her pair of sidekicks with her, too. Her long black hair has been combed perfectly straight and she has a fringe that rests in line with her flawless eyebrows. When she notices Naomi and me, she moves towards us, the other two at her side.

  ‘Aren’t you warm in all that?’ she asks, dripping with disdain as she nods at my clothes. ‘Is it two-for-one in Oxfam again?’ She has one eyebrow cocked, a talonic nail angled in my direction.

  The names of the other two swirl into my mind as they giggle girlishly. Rachel definitely dyes her hair to match Rebecca’s colour, while Rochelle, who has creamy dark skin, is probably natural. They all have matching fringes, not to mention designer bags hooped over their shoulders, identical red nails, ludicrous heels given the weather and venue, plus colour-coordinated summer dresses. Rebecca is in red, of course, because she needs to stand out the most. Rachel’s in blue and Rochelle is in white. Together, they could be a human tricolour.

  I roll my eyes towards her and shrug. ‘What’s it to you? Tired of being Sarah’s best friend, so you started making up
bearded men to get in the paper?’

  Rebecca glances quickly towards the families at the back, making sure nobody is listening in. She lowers her voice to a hiss. ‘I did see the Hitcher, actually. He could’ve abducted me. He could be a rapist. Just because you’d have to pay someone to shag you, doesn’t mean you have to be jealous.’

  Rochelle, who lives across the road from me, oohs as Rachel wags a finger. I can sense Naomi ready to leap into battle, so I reply quickly. ‘Sorry, are you talking to me, or menstruating on the floor?’

  I nod at Rebecca’s feet and she glances down quickly at the clean surface, before fixing me with a ferocious stare. She spits her response: ‘At least I’m not a rhino-faced slut with a murdering psycho for a brother.’

  She doesn’t wait for a comeback, pirouetting on her heels and stomping off towards the counter, wicked witches at her side.

  When they’ve gone, Naomi snorts into her hand. ‘That was a bit harsh,’ she says, trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘Me or her?’

  ‘Kinda both…’

  That’s hard to deny. Although my memory is patchy, Rebecca and I do not get on. Part of that is because of the social standing that Naomi and I had at school and now have at college.

  The Ravens are part of the cool crowd that generally run the place and whose lives will peak between the ages and sixteen and eighteen. They might not know it, but this is as popular as they will ever be.

  At the other end of the scale is the computer lot, who will end up making millions and managing the very people who currently make their lives miserable.

  Somewhere in the middle of all that is Naomi and me. We sort of… exist, which is fine. Aside from Rebecca, because of the way she treats everyone else, I hold no grudges. In a year’s time, I’ll be doing my exams and then I’ll be getting on with the rest of my life. In a few years, I won’t even remember most of these people. Strangely, I do remember a time when Rebecca and I were, well… friends. I was sitting next to her in a maths class when we were twelve. She started her period and I had to take her to the nurse. Now it’s the one thing I have to throw in her face when she acts like a cow. Not literally. Whether that makes me any better than her someone else can decide.