She stops to fumble for another cigarette, sparking it and taking two quick drags. ‘Look, I’m not proud of this but, if I’m honest, I mucked him around a bit. We went on a few proper dates, if you want to call them that. I’d get him to buy me stuff and then listen to him saying he was in love with me and everything. It was all a bit crazy, so I said we weren’t going anywhere. I was off to uni and he’d end up doing whatever he was doing. It was just a bit of fun. Anyway, he didn’t take it too well. What you’ve heard, well, it’s not far from the truth. I went shopping with my friends one Saturday and he kept turning up in the shops we were in. He’d hide behind the shelves and pretend to be looking at something when he was really looking at us. In the first shop, I thought it was a coincidence and nodded a sort-of “hi”, but then he kept showing up everywhere. We went to the cinema afterwards and, about halfway through, I realised he was sitting two rows behind me.’
Tina has devoured the cigarette and mashes it on the ground next to the first. She then picks up both butts and lobs them in the bin. ‘That summer – in between school and uni when I was still waiting for my A-level results, some of my friends and I went to Tenerife. It was only for a week but it was the first time I’d been abroad without my parents. There were five of us and the youngest had just turned eighteen, so we were all up for a few days of carnage. We flew out and checked in, then went straight out that night. We didn’t get in until four or five o’clock in the morning and went to bed. We had two rooms between us but I was the only one who got up for breakfast. It was one of these buffet places where you have to check to see if everything’s cooked properly. I was busy stacking up these potato things when I turned around and there he was.’
I gasp involuntarily and she nods in acknowledgement.
‘I know, right? He’s sitting at this table by himself, not looking up. I was still hungover and thought I was seeing things. Then he looks up, spots me and instantly turns away again. I go and sit opposite him and ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing. He can barely speak, mumbling something and claiming that it was all a big coincidence and that he was just staying there. I have no idea how he found out where we were going, let alone which hotel we were staying in. After that, I wouldn’t go anywhere without one of the other girls.’
‘He followed you on holiday?’
It sounds so over the top, so crazy, that I have to repeat it to believe it.
Tina nods and raises her eyebrows to say, ‘I know’. ‘That story about my dad finding him in the garden is true as well,’ she says. ‘It was the week before I went to uni – after the Tenerife thing. He claimed he’d lost a hat or something mad like that. My dad had a few words – well probably more than that, I didn’t hear exactly what was said – but then it ended. I’ve not really seen him since – other than at the Tape Deck. I didn’t know he worked there when I went, else I wouldn’t have gone.’
It takes me a second or two to take it in. ‘I can’t believe he followed you.’
She snorts. ‘Believe it. Look, I’ve not spoken to him in years. I’ve not heard about problems from any other girls in all this time. I assumed it was just a one-off. Sometimes we all do crazy things when we’re that age. I don’t know what’s actually going on – but if you really think he’s following you, then contact the police. If you don’t want to do that, then make sure you’re with a mate or something.’
‘Is he dangerous?’
‘I don’t know – with me, it was just… creepy.’
That word again.
Tina stands and wipes her hands on her apron. ‘I’ve got to get back but I’m assuming you’re here because you’re worried. I don’t want to get involved – it’s all in the past and I’d rather forget it.’
She shivers, mutters the word creepy once more – and then heads back across the road.
Chapter Seventeen
Because I haven’t had enough drama for one day, I still don’t head home. Instead, I cross through the centre of the village and start to walk up Gold Hill. The road climbs steeply and then zigzags back and forth, narrowing as the hedgerows become more and more overgrown until the daylight has been replaced by descending gloom. I know it eventually winds into the woods before stopping at a dead end, but don’t need to go that far.
Westby attracts families with money and when they ran out of large houses in and around the village centre, people started building their own in the surrounding area. Gold Hill is now home to a dozen or so large properties, each a little set back from the road. Some have solid walls to separate them from the rest of civilisation, which, if you ask me, kinda defeats the point of moving to a little village. If a person wants to barricade themselves away from everyone else, that could be done anywhere.
Not all the houses are like that, however. Around half have long driveways, with manicured lawns on either side. Sometimes Naomi and I would walk up here when the places were being built, simply to have a nosy at what was going on. I know for a fact that at least two of the newer houses have indoor swimming pools, while another has horse stables at the back. Westby is that kind of place.
The Lipskis own what is probably the smallest of the properties on Gold Hill. Rather than having something custom built, they bought a house that was owned by an old man I didn’t know. There’s a brick garage close to the road, with a scrunchy stone path that leads to a large cream house overlooking an overgrown garden. I’ve been here a couple of times before, on both occasions with Ollie to pick up or drop off Sarah.
The Lipski family were well known in the area, as they owned and ran a deli in the village centre. They imported meats, cheeses, fruits and vegetables from various places around Europe and then sold them on to locals for crazy prices. Mum bought things from there every now and then but I could never tell the difference between that and something from the supermarket.
After Sarah’s body was discovered, the deli was closed and it hasn’t opened since. Aside from one time they were in a car passing through the village centre, I’ve not seen either of her parents since.
I crunch along the Lipski path and the doorbell offers a satisfying ding-dong. Usually, knocking on a door or ringing the bell brings the sound of shuffling from the inside but I hear nothing. I think about trying again, or perhaps walking away and then, with no warning, the door swings inwards.
Mrs Lipski looks so much like her daughter that I have to stop myself from gasping as she stares at me. She has a rounded face with naturally tanned skin, greying blonde hair tied into a loose ponytail. It’s only the hint of wrinkles that stops her looking too much like Sarah.
‘Hello,’ she croaks.
‘Hi, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m… um—’
‘I know who you are.’
‘Right, er…’
She turns towards the inside. ‘Do you want to come in?’
‘Um… Oh… kay.’
I wasn’t exactly expecting that but she turns and pads along the hallway, then stops and waits for me to get inside and close the door. I follow her through a kitchen into a living room that has me open-mouthed, unsure what to say.
It is a shrine to Sarah, the walls patterned by photographs of the dead girl. There are ones of a young blonde playing with a doll; another being pushed on a bike. The photos go through her lifetime, showing her in school uniform, playing hockey, growing into her teens until… there are no more pictures to show. Perhaps it’s accidental but there is a thin strip of bare wall close to the front window where Sarah’s life has nowhere left to go.
‘Do you want something to drink?’ Mrs Lipski asks.
It takes me a moment to answer. ‘Water, if that’s all right.’ I’m not sure if it comes out clearly but she seemingly understands, offering a weak smile and then passing me to head back into the kitchen. For a few moments, I’m alone with the wall that shows picture after picture of a ghost. It’s hard to look but even harder to look away. There are so many sets of smiling eyes following me around the room.
I jump as
Mrs Lipski returns with a beaker of water. She offers it to me and then sits in the corner of a creaky leather sofa. It’s awkward to continue standing, so I perch on the matching armchair.
‘We don’t get many visitors nowadays,’ Mrs Lipski says. ‘When we ran the shop, we’d have people coming by the house and the shop every day – sometimes for deliveries, sometimes locals wanting us to order things in for them. Now… not so much.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She shakes her head. ‘My husband’s pottering in the shed at the back if you wanted him.’
‘I’m not sure who I wanted.’
Mrs Lipski eyes me for a moment and then sips from a mug of tea. We sit silently for a moment and I find myself struggling to remember why I came.
‘It might not mean anything now,’ she says, ‘not after so long has passed – but, for the record, my husband and I never believed your brother was involved in anything that happened to Sarah.’
I gulp and it feels like I want to cry, even though I know I can’t. I sip my water, forcing it back. She sounds so sad but so strong at the same time.
‘They really did love each other,’ she adds. ‘I know you’re here because it’s a year tomorrow. I don’t blame you. It’s nice to see someone.’
At least I don’t have to explain why I’m here, even if that’s not entirely the reason.
‘It’s hard to make sense of it all,’ I say and she nods. ‘Did the police ever…?’
‘What?’ she replies when I tail off.
‘I don’t know… I suppose I’m wondering if they ever mentioned suspects.’
‘Suspects?’ She looks at me as if I’ve brought up something she’s never thought of. I’ve been too forward, too direct, but it’s a little late now. I sip the water and say nothing, hoping she’ll fill the silence.
‘Are people still harassing Oliver?’ she asks.
‘Not so much now.’
Mrs Lipski nods. ‘The police never talked to us about things like that. They spoke to Sarah’s friends – to Oliver, obviously. They went through her things. If they ever had a feeling for who… did that… then they never said.’ He voice cracks and it takes her a moment to find it again. ‘Why do you ask?’
I can’t meet her stare, instead focusing on the bare patch of wall. ‘I suppose I’ve been thinking about Sarah a lot this weekend.’
It’s not a lie…
‘People talked,’ she adds as if I haven’t spoken. ‘People from the village, neighbours, customers. You’ve lived here longer than me – you know how it gets. A lot of them mentioned your brother, of course.’
She stops to drink her tea but hasn’t mentioned Ollie in an accusing way, more matter of fact. People were talking about him when Sarah was found in the river.
‘It wasn’t Ollie,’ I say. It blurts out like a reflex. I’ve spent month after month saying or thinking the same thing.
Mrs Lipski smiles with her mouth but not her eyes. She looks like she needs a good, long sleep. ‘There was only ever one other name but it took me and my husband a while to realise it. They’d asked us if Sarah ever ate at that diner place on the way to Langham.’
‘Tape Deck?’
‘That’s the one. We didn’t know – but then they came back with a photo someone had taken.’ She pushes herself to her feet and mutters something I don’t catch before disappearing through the door.
I’m alone again, not knowing where to look, but I can feel something tingling, too. If the police were talking about the Deck, who else could it be but Ash?
Mrs Lipski returns moments later and pushes a piece of paper towards me. The quality isn’t great as a cheap printer has inked the photo on basic paper but the figures are clear enough. Ollie is slurping a chocolate milkshake, Sarah a strawberry. Both are grinning as they press their cheeks to one another and behind them is the wall of cassettes from Tape Deck. Off to the side, either sneaking into or out of shot, is Ash, who is staring directly at the camera. It could be a coincidence – it probably is seeing as he works there – yet his narrow-eyed expression reeks of fury and hatred.
‘They asked about the boy at the back,’ Mrs Lipski says. ‘I don’t know him but apparently his name came up.’
‘Came up how?’
‘I don’t know – as far as I could tell it was just gossip. It’s a strange photo, a moment in time. He looks so angry but then he could’ve just dealt with a bad customer, or had to clean a really dirty table – that sort of thing. Still images can tell many lies…’
She tails off once more and then takes the photo back to stare at it herself. ‘At first, my husband and I – probably me more than him – were looking for a person to blame. We wanted justice. Vengeance, perhaps. We clung onto every tiny detail, hoping it would lead somewhere. It took a while before it sank in that these other people – including Oliver – had families, too. It’s easy to throw a name out there, to spread rumours, to insinuate, and so on – but when you do that, unless you know for sure what you’re talking about, all you’re doing is creating another victim.’
I’m not sure how to reply at first. It’s a lot to take in and seems so… grown up. That makes it even stranger because she is grown up – but not everyone acts like that. I’m not sure that I could or would.
‘Why that photo in particular?’ I ask eventually.
The cadence of her words has slowed, like she’s got a lot off her mind with her speech. ‘I’m not sure. They asked if my husband or I had ever seen the young man at the back of the picture. Had he been hanging around the house? I’d never seen him then and I’ve not seen him since. I don’t eat at that diner.’
As she speaks, I begin to answer my own question. If Naomi had heard the rumours about Ash and Tina, there’s a good chance someone told the police a year before. They’d have realised Sarah had eaten at the place where Ash worked and started asking questions. In the end, they likely led nowhere. It’s still a link from Sarah to me, though.
Before I can get too far ahead of myself, Mrs Lipski continues talking. ‘Do you ever find it hard living here?’
‘Westby?’
‘We came to your country from a big city, then we lived in an even bigger city for many years. We wanted to come here to give Sarah a chance to get away from that. We never realised how hard it is to escape in a small village.’
She looks up to me and I know exactly what she’s thinking. ‘Everyone knows everyone,’ I reply.
‘Community is nice but sometimes…’
She tails off but she’s said enough. Sometimes, it’s nice to be in a place where nobody knows, or cares, who you are. Where visiting the shops doesn’t have to be planned in advance in case there’s a chance Mr or Mrs So-and-So might be there at the same time. Where sitting on the swings by yourself is peaceful and relaxing, without Mr or Mrs So-and-So coming over to check how you are, how your mum is, and so on. I feel that resentment, too – and it can only be worse for the Lipskis given what happened to Sarah. Even well-wishers will end up being an inadvertent nuisance.
‘I’m not sure why you came but it’s nice that you did,’ Mrs Lipski says.
‘I don’t know why I came either.’
She puts down her mug of tea and uncurls her legs from the sofa, perching forward and peering more closely at me. I wonder if she’s thinking about why I’m wearing so many clothes, or if she’s noticed how grey my skin is looking.
‘Do you mind if I give you some advice?’ she asks.
‘Not at all.’
‘There are always rumours, always some bogeyman. Look at the news this week with this “Hitcher” fellow. When you’re young, it’s monsters under the bed. Nothing changes when you grow up. It’s terrorists wanting to blow up your plane, foreigners stealing your job or giving you exotic diseases. It’s burglars, rapists, murderers. There’s always – always – someone to be scared of. After my daughter…’ She gulps. ‘… after Sarah, I should be scared of everything. I was for a while. Noises in the night, the crunch of someone
on our path, knocks at the door. It’s easy to be scared – but now…’ She turns to face the wall of photos and gulps deeply. ‘I miss her so much, but now I can’t be scared of any of that. The moment you allow yourself to be frightened of everything is the moment you stop living your life.’
She turns back to me, stares into me with teary, round eyes. ‘You understand, don’t you?’
I don’t even need to think. ‘Yes.’
Chapter Eighteen
Mrs Lipski’s words rattle around my head on my way home. After everything she’s been through, it astounds me that she can be so calm. It’s great to say don’t be scared, but not that easy when it comes down to it. She has me wondering about what I’m scared of, especially now, but it’s hard to think past those hands in the water – one on my chest, one on my head, holding me under. Every time I close my eyes, I see it, feel it – and I am frightened. It’s impossible not to be.
When I’m in my room I take out my journal and stare at the list of names. There’s Robbie, the last person to see me on the night I died. I don’t know if I told him about kissing Ben but, if I did, is it arrogant to assume he was so consumed by anger that he attacked me? There’s Ash, whom I don’t really know but who has an apparent history of stalking young women. Or perhaps he was in the wrong place at the wrong time? There’s the Hitcher, who might not exist; Ollie, whose girlfriend was killed a year ago; Naomi, whose trust I might have destroyed; not to mention Ben himself, who could have been consumed by unrequited love or something stupid. None of them have a really strong reason to have held me under the water and yet I’m coming up with suggestions anyway.
Being dead gives a person a real ego.
I’ve told Mum I’m revising, which at least gives me an excuse for shutting myself in my room. Over the evening, I hear her and Ollie making their way up to bed and the house gradually goes quiet. I want to feel tired and, in many ways, I do. My thoughts are cluttered and confused. When I get a message from Naomi asking how I am, I can’t think how to reply. Robbie texts me something similar and then I get a lone message from Ben that simply reads ‘hi’. I tap out responses over and over, then delete each one, unsure how I feel about them and myself.
The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel Page 10