The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I see my footprints but nobody else’s and, for a moment, I wonder if the figure was ever there. Is it possible to imagine a person for real? To see someone where there is no one? When I think about what’s happened to me, it feels silly to imagine that anything is impossible.

  ‘Hello?’

  I don’t know why I call out but the sound echoes around the trees, rebounding back towards me until it sounds like someone else with my voice is here.

  ‘I only wanted to talk.’

  Nothing.

  ‘My name’s Ellie.’

  I’m not completely sure why I say it but telling somebody else your name seems like a human thing to do.

  Still nothing.

  I head towards the first pile of leaves, looking for a hint of a footstep that might mean I’m going in the right direction. I’m crouched on the floor trying to figure out if the gentle indentation in the soil came from my shoe when a chill falls across me.

  I’m still kneeling when I look up to see the shape of the Hitcher standing over me, hands in his pockets.

  ‘Ellie,’ he says. ‘That’s a nice name.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Although I’m not religious, I did go to a Church of England primary school, mainly because that’s the only one in the village. After passing through the main doors, there was a reception hall, the centrepiece of which was a large cross with an even larger painting of Jesus next to it. Of course, I now know it was an artist’s impression of what Jesus may or may not have looked like but I didn’t know that then. I thought the white man with long dark hair and a beard was what the actual Jesus looked like.

  For a moment, I flash back to primary school because the Hitcher looks so much like the painting. He’s not scruffy at all, not really, he’s just a little rough around the edges – like he’d know how to put up shelves or build a house extension, that sort of thing.

  ‘You’re him,’ I say, meaning the Hitcher, not Jesus.

  He offers his hand but I stand without it, backing towards a tree.

  ‘I’m who?’ he says. His voice is soft, almost like a woman’s.

  ‘The Hitcher.’

  ‘What’s a hitcher?’

  ‘Like a hitchhiker. Y’know, thumbing a lift…?’

  He looks at me blankly, so I explain that someone who looks like him was seen in the village a week or so ago – and that the locals went into meltdown, thinking he’d broken into the post office.

  He scratches his head. ‘People think I broke into a post office?’

  ‘Sort of – someone who looks like you.’

  ‘Why would I break into a post office?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  We’re standing and looking at each other, seemingly not knowing what the other is talking about. It’s like speaking to someone who doesn’t understand English. I can’t pick his accent, either. It’s not from anywhere around Westby, but then it’s unlike anything else I’ve heard. He pronounces his words very deliberately, over-pronounces, perhaps. He sounds posh but down-to-earth at the same time.

  ‘You’re going to have to explain this to me,’ he says. ‘A couple of people see me in the village and then everyone’s saying I broke into a post office…?’

  ‘That’s pretty much it.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘I’m guessing you never grew up in a village…?’

  He scratches his beard. ‘London.’

  ‘That’s a pretty big village.’

  He breaks into a smile, which completely changes his look. Without it, he could easily seem intimidating, mainly because of his size. When he grins, he seems child-like and mischievous.

  ‘If I’m supposedly a bad guy who broke into a post office, why did you follow me?’ he asks. ‘Wouldn’t you be scared?’

  I open my mouth but don’t know how to reply. He’s right – I should be frightened but I’m not. It hadn’t even crossed my mind to be afraid.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

  ‘Melek.’

  ‘Melek? Like dalek?’

  ‘What’s a dalek?’

  ‘How do you spell it?’

  ‘M-E-L-E-K. Melek.’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone named Melek before,’ I tell him.

  He nods and then grins again. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Does it mean something?’

  ‘Dunno. Does Ellie mean something?’

  I’m not sure why I’m telling him but he seems harmless. Friendly, even. ‘My full name is Eleanor,’ I say. ‘It means Shining Light.’

  He lets out a low whistle. ‘Do you do much shining?’

  I laugh, properly laugh, unable to stop myself. ‘No,’ I manage.

  ‘You’re letting yourself down, Ellie,’ he replies.

  With that, he turns and starts to walk through the trees. ‘Hey,’ I call after him, but all he does is peep over his shoulder and smile.

  For a moment, I’m alone – and then I make my decision, chasing after him, skipping across the twigs and bracken until I’m at his side. He seems surprised that I’m there but continues to walk effortlessly, as if he’s on a perfect athletic track.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘Wherever I lay my hat.’

  I have to quickstep to stay at his side. He’s a fast walker. ‘Is that a song?’

  ‘Marvin Gaye – then Paul Young.’

  ‘I think they’ve played it at the Deck.’

  ‘What’s the Deck?

  ‘A place where we go to eat.’

  Melek rounds a tree and then heads into a semicircle of bushes. A rucksack is lying under another tree and he heads straight for it, sliding down the trunk and then fishing into the bag until he pulls out an apple.

  ‘Want one?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve not been eating recently.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Considering we’re in the woods, Melek has found himself a cosy-looking spot. The bushes provide a barrier against the wind, while the trees above are tall and have grown into each other, providing a natural cover if it rains. We’re probably only ten minutes’ walk from Westby and yet this could be the middle of nowhere.

  ‘Didn’t the search parties find you?’ I ask.

  ‘What search parties?’

  ‘No matter.’

  Melek takes a large crunchy bite of the apple and chews. ‘So, I’m the Hitcher,’ he says.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I kinda like it – but I wasn’t even hitchhiking.’

  ‘Are you the person people saw in the village?’

  He shakes his head and then nods. ‘Perhaps. Maybe it was my twin.’

  ‘You have a twin?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m joking – it probably was me. I go to that toilet block every now and then to wash up. I didn’t break into your post office, though. I’ve never sent a letter in my life. They can trace everything if you do that.’

  Melek takes another bite of his apple.

  ‘Who’s they?’ I ask.

  ‘Them. The government, MI5, MI6, big business. I’m off the grid. Ain’t nobody spying on me.’

  I wonder if he’s joking again or if this is serious. He takes a third bite of the apple, not laughing, so I can only assume he means what he says.

  ‘Where did you get the apple?’ I ask.

  ‘Thought you didn’t want one?’

  ‘I don’t – I was just curious where it came from.’

  ‘Not your post office. I don’t do stealing.’

  ‘I never said you did.’

  He takes another bite, watching me the entire time. Eventually he nods past me. ‘There’s an apple grove that way.’

  I look over my shoulder, even though there’s no reason to. All I can see is trees. Melek is now nibbling the top part of the apple around the core. ‘What’s the difference between a grove and an orchard?’ I ask.

  ‘No idea, all I know is that there’s
free apples that way.’

  Melek finishes the fruit by pecking at the leftover bits around the bottom, and then he throws the browning core into one of the bushes. He wipes his hands on the ground and then reaches into his bag and takes out a battered paperback.

  ‘Do you live here?’ I ask.

  It looks like he’s reading and he replies without looking up. ‘I live here and there. Place to place.’

  ‘But you’ve been here for a week or so?’

  ‘I don’t know. The sun rises, the sun falls.’ He peers up from the book, looking at me from bottom to top. ‘Why are you here?’

  Something about the way he asks compels me to answer. ‘A girl’s gone missing,’ I say.

  He takes a moment to process it, brow rippling slightly. ‘… and you think—?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But people in the village were talking about seeing this long-haired man with ripped jeans and some people were thinking…’

  He nods. ‘I don’t get what’s going on here. You live in one weird place, Eleanor. Folks see someone they don’t know, then assume he’s breaking into post offices and stealing girls?’

  I shrug. ‘People round here aren’t such fans of outsiders.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t an insider.’

  He says it with a firm full stop and then turns back to his book.

  ‘Don’t you want a roof to live under?’ I ask.

  He stares up again, this time as if I’m an alien with three heads asking the stupidest question imaginable.

  ‘Why would I want a roof?’

  ‘In case it rains.’

  ‘Pah! That’s crazy talk. I have free water in the river. Free apples in the grove. Books in my bag. What else do I need? I’m only passing through. A few more sunrises and sunsets and I’ll be on my way. I still have a job to do.’

  ‘What job?’

  He looks directly at me and I shiver. It feels as if he can see everything I am. That he knows my problems, understands everything about being me. I’m trembling as if someone has trampled across my grave. In my case, that could perhaps be true.

  He doesn’t answer, instead turning back to his book and releasing me from my frozen state. The spine of his book is full of creases, the absolute philistine.

  ‘Were you by the river very early on Sunday morning?’ I ask.

  ‘I do not know one day from the next.’

  ‘A few days ago – were you by the river?’

  ‘What are you really asking me, Eleanor?’

  There’s the briefest moment in which I shiver once again – and then the words inexplicably fall from my mouth. ‘I died on Sunday morning.’

  Melek doesn’t flinch, folding his book closed and returning it to his bag before looking up. ‘Yet you’re here in front of me,’ he says.

  ‘You don’t seem surprised that I’m telling you I’m dead,’ I say. ‘Most people would tell me I was being silly, or deny it was possible.’

  He continues to stare unmovingly.

  ‘Is it down to you?’ I ask.

  ‘Is what down to me?’

  He’s so calm that it’s infuriating. It feels like he’s taking the piss… Giving the piss. I don’t know why the thought occurs to me, where the words come from, but I’ve said it before I can stop myself. ‘Are you my guardian angel?’

  Still he doesn’t react. ‘Do you believe in angels?’

  ‘I don’t know… I don’t think so.’

  ‘If you don’t believe in angels, then how could I be one?’

  I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. Thinking. ‘Someone recently explained to me about faith. He said that if a person believes in something, really believes, then it doesn’t matter what others say.’

  ‘This person sounds wise.’

  Melek and I continue to stare at each other and I will him to say something, even if it’s to say I’m talking nonsense.

  ‘Did you bring me back from the dead? I ask.

  Melek turns his head slightly to the side, eyes narrowing. ‘Back from the dead? And you think I’m crazy for living without a roof.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  After making a fool of myself, there’s little else to say to Melek. When I tell him I have to go, he doesn’t argue, nor does he ask me to keep his location a secret. Instead, he points me past a spindly grey tree and tells me to keep walking for ten minutes. I do just that – and then emerge onto the car park next to the river, in almost the exact spot through which I entered the woods.

  I wonder if he was being honest about not seeing the search party – they would have walked right past his spot, after all. The entire experience feels like something that isn’t real.

  The overcast skies have brought dusk to the early evening, so I cross the bridge once more and walk home along the exact route I took when I pulled myself from the river what seems like months ago. When I reach the house, I’m left standing on the pavement, staring towards the shock of red graffiti across our front door. The idiot who sprayed it has gone for ‘MUDEROR’ as an insult, which would have more impact if he or she could spell correctly. The paint seems relatively fresh as the lower parts of the letters are running down the wall.

  I stop at the end of the path and turn in a circle, peering towards the windows of the surrounding houses. Nobody is watching that I can see, though it is dusky enough that anyone could be standing a little back from their window, eclipsed by shadow.

  I head into the house but no one has been here since Mum and I left this morning. If that mystic from the seaside really can do anything about auras, then she should have a pop at sorting out the house. The echo of the door opening ripples around the empty building, leaving a spooky, unnatural impression. The aftermath of the police team’s search is still on show, with the kitchen drawers pulled out and so many little things out of place that it’s as if I’m in the alternative dimension Naomi mentioned.

  After filling a bucket with warm, soapy water, I return to the front of the house with a sponge. It’s not easy but because the paint it recent, it comes away with half a dozen hard scrubs. As I dig into the wall, pressing as hard as I can, I feel the eyes of the neighbours upon me. Perhaps they’re there, perhaps not – either way, I won’t give them the satisfaction of turning to show how annoyed I am.

  By the time the water in the bucket has turned pink, I’ve managed to get rid of the ‘M’ and half the ‘U’. The water sloshes into the drain and I head back inside for more. While the water swills into the bucket, I check my phone – but there are no further messages or calls. Whatever’s going on at the police station must be significant, because I can’t think of another reason why Mum would spend so much of the day out of reach. I try calling anyway but it goes straight to voicemail.

  With her not answering, I call Jim instead – who’s still named ‘Uncle Jim’ in my phone. He answers straight away: ‘Ellie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Your mum’s been trying to call you for the past hour.’

  He rattles out the words, rat-a-tat-tat.

  ‘My phone’s been on.’

  ‘She gave up after a while, because…’

  He tails off and sighs, during which time it dawns on me that I’ve been in the woods with Melek during the period he mentions. There’s every chance I was in a mobile black hole and, by the time I was out, she’d given up.

  ‘Did you say you’re at the house?’ he adds.

  ‘Yes, somebody’s graffitied “murderer” across the front door. I’m trying to clear it away before Mum gets home.’

  ‘Okay, do me a favour – stay put and I’m going to send a car for you. It’ll bring you to Langham police station, which is where your mum and I are.’

  He sounds grave.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘Your mum needs you, Ellie.’

  ‘Why?’

  He sighs again. ‘I’m sorry for having to tell you this on the phone – but it�
��s Ollie.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s confessed, Ellie. He says he killed Sarah Lipski and Helen James.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Langham police station is ablaze with light. It’s a strange thing to notice as I head through the main doors at the front but the bulbs above are so white – and there are so many – that I find it hard to see.

  The officer who picked me up from the house leads me through a maze of corridors. The walls are covered with various posters adorned with slogans like ‘THINK’ and pints of beer with long lists of facts… because that’s the one thing drinkers really like: facts. Eventually, I end up in a small room with half a dozen blue canvas chairs, a low table covered with battered magazines, a water fountain, and a vending machine that’s humming away in the corner. Mum jumps to her feet when she sees me, striding across the room, her face a mask of red and tears and she wraps her arms around me and squeezes so tight that I start to cough.

  ‘Ellie,’ she says, a single word, my name. It’s so harrowed, so haunted, that it sounds like she can’t believe I’m in front of her.

  ‘I’m here, Mum.’

  By the time she releases me, the door to the room has closed and we’re alone. She stands, wiping her eyes, but it has little effect. She pulls a tissue from her sleeve and blows her nose long and loud, then dabs at her eyes.

  She’s a mess.

  ‘I tried calling,’ she says.

  ‘I must have been somewhere with no service. I’d called you before that.’

  She points at the ceiling. ‘No reception. I had to keep going outside. Did Jim contact you?’

  I nod, even though I called him. For a moment, it looks like she might break again. She collapses onto the seat and leans forward, head in hands. ‘Why would he do this, Ellie? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why would he confess to something he didn’t do?’

  I was about to say I don’t understand – and then I realise what she’s said. I thought she was asking why he’d kill two girls – but she’s actually wondering why he gave a false confession.

  It’s still not hit her yet.

  I’m not sure I understand it all but I’ve spent the journey here thinking about Ollie’s reasons and can only assume it was some sort of anger fuelled by… I’m not sure. Perhaps Sarah dumped him? I don’t know. It still doesn’t feel like something my brother might do and yet there was a time when I suspected him myself.