‘He didn’t do anything,’ she says firmly, twisting against her seatbelt to face me. She reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing. ‘Sorry for before,’ she says.
‘It wasn’t Jim’s fault.’
She brushes it off with a small shake of the head. ‘When he spoke to you earlier, did he ask about your brother?’
‘I didn’t know anything to tell him.’
She nods, though I’m not sure she’s listening. ‘They’re trying it again – like last time, with Sarah. People have had it in for him since then.’
‘Where are we going to stay, Mum?’
‘Give me a minute first.’
She takes out her phone and, though I only get one half of the conversation, it’s easy enough to work out she’s speaking to a solicitor. She asks whoever it is to visit Ollie at Langham police station and then says she’ll see him or her in the morning. I’m actually impressed at how decisive she sounds.
‘We’re going to that B & B on the edge of town,’ she says, putting her phone away. ‘They’re never booked up and it’s only for one night.’
She says nothing else before setting off again, doing a three-point turn and then following the roads out of Westby until we hit the country lanes.
Bentley’s Bed and Breakfast is a place I’ve passed hundreds of times, yet never thought twice about. It’s essentially a large house with a larger garden, set back a little from the road. It is surrounded by a white picket fence that is pure Americana. There’s a sign at the front that reads ‘vacancies’. I’ve never seen it say anything else.
Speed in Westby is a relative thing. If the shops run out of bread or milk on a given day, that’s it until the next delivery arrives. Sometimes the van turns up to empty the post box in the centre, other times it doesn’t. When it snows in the winter, it can feel like this little corner of England is cut off from everywhere else on the planet. No roads in or out, panicky conversations about grit and why the council hasn’t ordered enough. School gets cancelled and there are days where it barely gets light. Anyone young spends that time in the fields, building snowmen and having snowball fights. It feels like the world has wound down, that time itself has slowed to village pace.
But while some things around here are so slow they barely move, nothing travels faster than news and gossip. I have no memory of what it might have been like in the days before widespread Internet and mobile phones – but it’s like light speed now.
When Mum and I walk through the doors of the bed and breakfast, Mr Bentley is already standing behind the counter as if he’s been waiting for us. He’s short and round with a permanently red face, like a giant radish.
‘Good evening, Mrs Parker,’ he says with a tight, knowing smile. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, allowing a wire brush of hair to sprout forth, a Mediterranean waiter without the tan, charm or physique.
Mum is ruthlessly clear: ‘I was hoping you have a room free for me and my daughter.’
He nods and reaches for the computer on the counter, single-finger typing as if his opposable thumbs are yet to evolve. ‘I’m sure that will be fine. I hope everything is all right with you…?’
If the fact he was waiting for us hadn’t already given him away, then the snide sideways glance certainly does.
‘Just a complication at the house,’ Mum says, which Mr Bentley brushes off with another smile that really isn’t.
‘I have a room on the second floor overlooking the garden, or another on the third with a view of both the back and front of the house. They’re both twins, both en suite and a full English is included in the morning.’ He looks between us, settling back on Mum. ‘Which would you prefer?’
She asks about prices but it’s more her trying to be polite and not give him the satisfaction of appearing anything other than calm. If she were to crack into tears, the news would hit the rest of the village faster than an aeroplane could drop from the sky. Mum eventually settles for the room on the top floor, pays, and then hefts her holdall up from the floor.
‘Is there anything I can help with?’ Mr Bentley purrs.
‘We’re fine.’
‘If you need anything during your stay, don’t hesitate to ask.’ He points towards a blank door close to the counter. ‘My wife and I will be just through there. Knock any time you like, day or night.’
Mum smiles sweetly. ‘We will.’
We’re upstairs in the room with the door locked when Mum finally spits what she really thinks. ‘I hate that man,’ she says.
I remember her telling my young self that ‘hate’ was a strong word that shouldn’t be used idly but it’s neither the time nor place to point that out.
Mum takes off her jacket and shoes, then tugs at her top. ‘Aren’t you hot?’ she asks. ‘It’s sweltering in here.’
I’m still wearing jeans, with three layers of tops. Because I was feeling cold all the time, I’ve stopped noticing the temperature. ‘A little,’ I say, not wanting to talk about it.
The room itself is like something out of a costume drama – or would be if it was left to rot for thirty years. There are pretty carvings in the four corners of the ceiling but it’s hard to tell what anything is as the whitewash has turned a mucky yellow-brown. The wallpaper is a faded pink and the varnish on the wooden floors is scratched in some areas, washed-out in others. There are two single four-poster beds, each covered with too many pillows to count.
Mum sits on the one closest to the door. ‘I can’t believe that man’s done this to us.’
‘Mr Bentley?’
‘Jim.’
She says his name as if she’s swearing.
‘It’s not his fault,’ I say. ‘He had a job to do.’
‘So, you’re turning on your brother now as well?’
‘Of course I’m not.’
Mum continues to face the door, bag at her side, unpacked. The silence echoes around the high ceilings and I’m standing close to the other bed, unsure what to do. When Mum doesn’t follow up her anger, I start to move the cushions from the bed to the floor, which at least gives me room to lie down. I check my phone and there are messages from Naomi, Robbie and Ben, all asking what’s going on. Given it’s been an hour or so since Ollie was arrested, they likely already know.
I’m thinking about how best to reply – or if I should reply at all – when Mum speaks again. ‘I’ve known that man almost my entire life.’
‘Who?’
‘Jim. He was your father’s best friend, his best man.’ She counts on her fingers, which would seem funny in other circumstances as it’s such a primary school thing to do. ‘Thirty-six years – that’s how long we’ve known each other.’
She turns to me but her face is so blank that I want to look away. I don’t want to be the grown-up in this situation. It’s hard to break her stare.
‘I first met him when we were all fifteen – your father, Jim and me. I started seeing your father, and Jim was seeing my friend, Pamela. We’d go to the movies together, eat together, that sort of thing. All your stuff about house parties, late-night trips to the woods… well, been there, done that.’
It’s always uncomfortable to hear about Mum being young. Doing fun, rebellious things is always significantly less fun and definitely not as rebellious when parents got there first. She doesn’t wait for me to reply.
‘I don’t know what happened to Pamela. Her dad got a job somewhere up north and the last I heard, she had four kids. I married your father; Jim got his job with the police and things carried on.’
‘Mum.’
‘What?’
‘If you think about it, things could’ve been a lot worse. You see stories where the police make a massive deal of arresting someone. There are news cameras there, plus loads of people. I know there were flashing lights but it was kinda quiet, too. Three cars, only one bloke doing the talking. They never handcuffed Ollie. Perhaps the reason it was like that is because Jim made them go easy…?’
She stares at me for a few moments but do
esn’t speak. Then she shuffles up the bed, buries herself in the pillows and rolls onto her side to face away from me. I wait, wondering if she’s going to say anything, but she doesn’t. It’s not long before it all slows and her side begins to rise and fall with the deep breaths of sleep.
I wish I could do that.
I cross to the window and sit in the creaking armchair, staring out at the moonlit garden. There’s a pond at the far end that’s reflecting the light like a mirror and a trail of small fairy lights that dot the rim of the green. Aside from Mum’s gentle, soft snoring, everything is eerily silent and I know I have no hope of sleeping. Instead, I plug my phone in and sit flipping through the online photographs of me, my friends, and my brother, wondering when exactly it all went wrong.
V
Thursday
Chapter Thirty-Two
I spend the night in the armchair, occasionally blinking my way back into the river before coming to my senses. When the burnt orange starts to creep through the trees at the back of the garden, I realise I’ve now gone four entire days without sleep – and that’s if being dead in the river counts as sleep. Without that, it’s five.
By six in the morning, it’s another summer’s day. I think about closing the curtains but Mum has barely moved all night anyway. She sleeps in the clothes she was wearing during the day and, aside from the occasional snort, hasn’t looked like waking up.
It is after seven when she eventually does. I hear her rolling over and then she croaks my name.
‘What are you doing over there?’ she asks.
‘I watched the sun come up.’
When I stand and turn, she is sitting on her bed, looking at mine, which is still-made and unruffled. She asks how I’m feeling and I lie that I slept well. She yawns and manages a weak smile before stumbling into the bathroom.
I spend the time staring out the window, wondering what the day will bring. In no time at all, everything has fallen apart.
Twenty minutes later and Mum is back out in a new set of clothes. She looks fresher than before but still has something of a slump, as if she has the weight of the world on her shoulders. She’s slept all night but it’s not obvious from the haggard way she’s holding herself.
I change and then we head downstairs to check out. Mr Bentley seems disappointed that we’re not staying for breakfast but then, on the other hand, our lack of appetites will provide another update for the village grapevine.
There’s silence in the car as Mum drives us back to the house. When we pull up outside, there is a marked police car on the road but Ollie’s Ford has gone, leaving a gap on the driveway. Mum pulls in front-first and then clambers out. She seems unsure what to do. There are curtains twitching all around as she approaches the front door. Should we knock on our own front door? Let ourselves in?
Before we have to make a decision, the door opens and the female officer with the farmer shoulders holds it open for us. It feels odd to be welcomed into our own home but we go with it. Inside, she hands us a checklist, saying it lists everything that’s been taken for further examination. She adds that Ollie’s car has also been removed for searching, and asks Mum to read the notice and sign. She does so without fuss and then the officer asks if we have any questions. It’s hard to know where to begin but Mum says no and then, with a click of the front door, we are alone in the house.
Mum drifts into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle with an errant swish of her hand, before heading into the living room.
Both rooms have been ransacked.
It looks like a burglary. The kitchen drawer that is full of receipts and menus has been emptied, the contents left on the side. Items of food that were in the cupboard are now on the side and the knives – certainly the sharp ones – have been removed completely. The living room is a similar story and there are so many small things out of place that it starts to become overwhelming. I straighten a picture frame on the wall, which is the tiniest tip of the Everest-like mountain.
‘I’ll do it,’ Mum says.
I want to say I’ll help but she sounds so firm that it is a decision not for negotiation.
I reply that I’m going to check my room and then head upstairs and go into Ollie’s. It was messy before but it’s even worse now. Two of the posters have been torn – presumably by accident – but the one of the woman with the car has been removed. The picture of Ollie and Sarah from the windowsill is gone. I check his stack of games – but the bracelet still sits in the case, either unnoticed or disregarded. So much for a thorough search, this feels more like a wrecking job.
My room has barely been touched and, though I didn’t look at the checklist Mum was given, it doesn’t look like anything has been taken. The clothes in my wardrobe have been shunted to one side and someone has definitely gone through my drawers – but that’s about it. I return my journal to its hiding place but keep the bracelet in my pocket.
I’m not sure what to do with the day. Technically, college is still open. It is a Thursday, after all.
‘Ellie!’
I peer over the banister to where Mum is at the bottom of the stairs, car keys in her hand. ‘The solicitor just called, so I’m off to Langham police station to see your brother.’ She motions towards the house. ‘Leave all this. I’ll do it when I get back.’
‘Do you want me to come?’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s no place you want to be. I’ll see you later. Call me if you need me.’
She doesn’t wait for a reply, striding purposefully towards the door.
After the front door closes, I sit on the stairs and yawn. It takes me so by surprise that I’m still reeling when three more hit me. I rest my head against the wall, finally feeling sleepy, although the moment I close my eyes, I’m back in the river again.
When I try to stand, my knees wobble and I need to hold onto the banister to steady myself. I’m even a little dizzy, with the hallway zooming towards me and then away again. When my eyes are open, my head spins; when they’re closed, it feels like I’m drowning once more. I end up sitting on the stairs, one eye open, one closed, trying to trick my body. It takes a few minutes but my vision eventually clears and, though my legs are rickety, I reach the bottom of the stairs without falling.
Naomi answers her phone on the second ring, not waiting for me to say anything before asking if everything’s all right. I apologise for not replying to her messages, but she doesn’t seem bothered, telling me college has been cancelled and that everyone’s still out looking for Helen.
Given the circumstances with Ollie, it is unquestionably a risky thing for me to join in but occasionally I get a kick from annoying some of the villagers just to see how they’ll react.
Okay, a lot of time, I get a kick from annoying the villagers.
I lock the house, checking it twice, and then walk down to the car park next to the river. There’s barely a soul on the streets, with work and school apparently abandoned. The few who are around pay me no attention anyway. It’s another moody, misty morning with the clouds ready to give way to brilliant, blinding blue. The village search parties are organising themselves around, perhaps predictably, a tea urn.
Naomi welcomes me with a hug and we stand on the bridge talking. She says that Robbie and Ben have already been drafted onto a team currently combing the densest part of the woods on top of Gold Hill. Everyone else is waiting to find out what the plans for the day are.
As we stand together, it becomes apparent that we’re the centre of attention, or – more to the point – I am. There is a mixture of bewilderment and outright hostility bristling from those in the car park. Nobody says anything because it’s rarely the way of those who live here. Instead, it is more sideways glances and mutterings. A woman I only vaguely recognise is passing through the crowd with a plate of biscuits but she doesn’t head in our direction when she reaches the bridge. The only person who offers anything even approaching a smile is the vicar.
‘Has anyone found anything?’ I ask, keeping my
voice low.
Naomi glances towards the crowd and then turns her back to them, lowering her voice. ‘Is it true about your brother?’
‘That depends on what you’ve heard.’
‘That he was arrested.’
I nod.
‘That they searched your house last night?’
‘We had to stay at Bentley’s B & B.’
‘Ugh.’
‘I think it was last decorated before I was born.’
Naomi lowers her voice even further. It’s barely a whisper. ‘What do they think he did?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If they found anything at your house, they wouldn’t still have us searching for anything to do with Helen.’
I shrug, unsure what to say.
‘People are saying they found Helen’s body in your attic.’ I step back a little, raising my eyebrows, but Naomi adds quickly: ‘I’m not saying I believe it – that’s just what someone was saying.’
‘Who?’
She nods towards the crowd. ‘You know who. The usual lot.’
‘The Ravens?’
‘And some of the biddies. You know what they’re like. They love this stuff.’
As I glance past Naomi towards the flock of villagers, a dozen eyes turn away, pretending they weren’t watching in the first place.
‘What else have you heard?’ I ask.
Naomi is biting her nails nervously. ‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘That night we were all in the woods, do you remember when Helen stood up to defend Ollie?’
‘Of course.’
‘People saw them leaving together in the early hours.’
It takes me a moment to process the information. It would explain why Jim was so insistent on asking me about the times at which Helen and Ollie left.
‘Who saw them?’ I ask.
The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel Page 19