The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker_An absolutely gripping mystery novel

by Kerry Wilkinson

  My mouth is dry but I find myself licking my lips anyway, unsure what to tell her. Who else could have killed Sarah, probably Helen as well, and tried to drown me? I don’t believe it’s Robbie, nor Ben or Naomi. It’s not Melek, the Hitcher; or Ash, so who else is there? The Ravens? I can’t picture it. Ollie’s the connection to all of us, and now he’s apparently confessed.

  Mum seemingly reads my thoughts. She peers between her fingers at me. ‘It’s not him,’ she says.

  I’m saved from having to answer because there’s a double knock at the door and then Jim appears. His face is more wrinkled and haggard than last night and it doesn’t look like he’s slept since then. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, his top button undone.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so long,’ he says, talking to Mum.

  She stares at him blankly but says nothing. Jim steps into the room and quietly closes the door. He waits for a moment, possibly to see if anyone’s going to knock, and then crosses to sit next to Mum.

  ‘Things are out of my hands,’ he says. ‘Because of my connection to you both, plus the seriousness of the case, there’s nothing I can do. The Langham police might even end up handing it over to the wider authority. Everything’s up in the air at the moment.’

  Mum says nothing, so I reply instead. ‘What happened today?’

  Jim reaches to the water fountain and fills up a plastic cup. He holds it to his forehead, rolling the condensation across his skin, and then downs it. ‘I’m not certain for the reasons I mentioned. I’ve been doing other work from this station today and then asking officers I know the odd question. I’ve been checking in on your mum, too.’

  She doesn’t dispute it as he has another drink. ‘Oliver hadn’t been talking all day,’ Jim adds. ‘That’s possibly because of the legal advice he was given, or perhaps for other reasons. I don’t know. I went down to the cells to check on him a few hours ago – not to question him, just to ask if he was all right. He’d been offered a chance to talk to your mother but refused. He wasn’t eating but I managed to get him to drink some water. He was down, obviously – shocked, probably – but as normal as you might expect given the circumstances.’

  ‘If he wasn’t talking, how did he end up confessing?’ I ask.

  Jim shakes his head. ‘I have no idea. After making sure he was as all right as he’s going to get, I came back up to finish my shift. I had some paperwork and the next thing I know, someone came in and said Oliver had requested to be brought up from the cells for interview. Apparently, he confessed then.’

  ‘What do you mean, “confessed”?’ I ask. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ellie. I don’t know precise details. The guys on the floor say he admitted he killed Sarah a year ago and that he’s responsible for Helen’s disappearance, too. I can’t push for too much of the details. I told you – things are out of my hands.’

  The room feels colder. ‘Where is Helen?’ I ask, careful not to ask where her body is.

  Jim shakes his head. He doesn’t seem to know much more than we do. I can only assume this is a detail Ollie is keeping to himself.

  So little of it makes sense.

  I want to see Ollie myself, to ask him what’s going on, but I don’t think I’ll get the chance any time soon, if ever. I’m still not sure if I believe he did all this. Could he really have faked the affection with which he talked about Sarah? Or was that some sort of guilt?

  The one thing I really want to ask him, sister to brother, eye to eye, is if he held me under the water and drowned me.

  ‘He won’t let his solicitor in,’ Jim says. Mum sits up straighter, as this is apparently the first she’s heard of it.

  ‘Since when?’ she asks.

  ‘Since the time he confessed. He said he wasn’t going to say a word until the solicitor left the room. He wouldn’t accept the duty lawyer, either.’

  Mum stands and steps towards the door. ‘I want to see him.’

  Jim jumps up and takes her hand. She doesn’t pull away and the two of them stand in the middle of the room, neither looking at each other, nor me. They’re both staring at the walls, which are covered with more posters. One has the slogan ‘RESPECT’, followed by a list of the penalties for attacking a police officer.

  ‘He won’t talk at all,’ Jim says. He refused to see his solicitor, or me – and when they asked if he wanted to talk to you, he said no. He’s gone back to his cell. They’re hoping to question him more in the morning.’

  Mum staggers slightly and Jim wraps an arm around her front, pulling her to him. She doesn’t struggle this time, their argument from yesterday seemingly forgotten. She buries her face in his shoulder and sobs the word ‘why?’.

  It takes a minute or two for her to pull away. Her face is streaky and lined with tears both dry and new. It’s hard to see her like this but I feel empty inside, unable for whatever reason to feel angry or upset. I don’t know what I feel… probably confused more than anything else.

  ‘I’m going to take you to a hotel,’ Jim says, talking to Mum and then glancing towards me as well. ‘As soon as news of this gets out – which won’t be long – your house will be under siege from journalists and the like. The B & B from last night is too obvious, so I’ll find you somewhere around Langham where you can go unnoticed, for tonight at least.’

  He steps away from my mum, leaving her hand dangling in the air as she reaches for him, wanting his comfort. ‘Why?’ she sobs, but Jim turns to me and then the door.

  It’s the question to which no one but Ollie has the answer.

  VI

  Friday

  Chapter Forty

  I’m lying in bed, desperately wanting to sleep but unable to get past that sinking feeling of being held under the water. Every time my eyes close, I’m in the river again, choking and swallowing, gasping for air. There’s a hand on my chest, the other on my head, the person’s weight holding me under, pressing hard as I fight back until…

  It’s impossible for me to keep my eyes closed for longer than that.

  I sit up in bed, gasping, my head swirling. A part of me thinks that if this is all over – if it was Ollie whose hands I feel – then why am I still here? I can’t sleep, can’t eat. I’m a shell of a person, so what use am I?

  I’m not sure if it’s down to Jim, my mother, or some kind soul at the hotel, but I have a room to myself. It’s not that much bigger than my bedroom at home, though there is a small bathroom in the corner. It’s still a space where I can be by myself. Between the bed and the bathroom is a door connecting my room to Mum’s. At first, she was panicked that we were apart, that she’s already lost one child and I might go the same way. I spent a while assuring her I was going nowhere and then she took a tablet, one of the ones left over from after Dad died. It wasn’t long after that she fell asleep.

  It’s a little after midnight and I know there’s no chance of me sleeping. The television is muted, beaming bright images that leave the room in a blue-grey haze. I don’t want to watch it but it’s hard not to – and the twenty-four-hour news channel is about the only sane thing on at this time of the night anyway. There are photographs of Ollie and Sarah, the iconic one of her with the flowing blonde hair that everyone knows. There’s another of Helen, too – smiling in her school uniform on the final day of term from a year ago. Her red hair is bright in the brimming sun and it’s hard to comprehend that a person who is a part of me has wiped out these two bright souls.

  I still don’t know if I believe it, even though he confessed. My thoughts veer from one extreme to another; from, ‘he didn’t do it’, to ‘why did he do it?’. He confessed, after all.

  The silent images on the screen change to Langham police station, then the sleepy centre of Westby to signify that we’re all yokels from the middle of nowhere.

  After that, it is Rebecca the Raven – who else? – who is solemnly holding it together for the reporters. She’s as pristine and porcelain as ever, but I struggle to feel too much anger towards her
because, in this instance at least, she has as much right to mourn Helen as anyone else. Helen was a success where I was a failure because, in the end, who cares about such petty feuds?

  Robbie and I had a heart to heart about going our separate ways, about the end of our era, as he called it – and it was touching and heartfelt. The same applies with Rebecca and me, though. Our lives will split in different directions and, before long, we’ll forget why we hated each other anyway. Why any of it mattered.

  The television is showing another photo of Helen, this time her taking part in some inter-school debate competition that I don’t remember. They’re reporting it as if she’s dead, which might be the case – although, from what Jim said at the station, Ollie hasn’t told them where the body is.

  I sit zombie-like, watching the footage on a loop. It’s not long before the same photos and graphics are repeating themselves. Ollie, Sarah, Helen, Rebecca, Helen again. And repeat.

  Still not tired.

  It’s only on the fourth loop when it occurs to me that I might be able to help. It was on a smaller scale but I discovered the bracelet Ollie had hidden by thinking in a way I thought he might. If I did it once, I can do it again – and this time I might be able to find Helen, or at least a trace of her.

  I’ve been in the same clothes all day but fashion sense is low on my priorities. My phone battery is low, which is the result of being in a hotel while the charger is at home. The only other thing in my pocket is the bracelet I found in the river.

  Sarah’s bracelet, if Ollie was telling the truth.

  I hold it, running my thumb across the smooth leather and then, because I feel an urge, I tie it around my wrist.

  I don’t want to risk being recognised by anyone on reception, so creep along the corridor, following the blue arrows marking the fire exit. Aside from the odd muffled voice and a creaking lift, all is still. As far as I can tell, I reach the door at the far end of the corridor without being seen. The fire exit door pushes open with a clunk and then I’m outside. I can’t tell if the air is cold or if it’s simply me. It might be both but it bites either way. My teeth chatter but I don’t have a wardrobe of clothes here to pile on the layers, so I close the door quietly and continue down the metal stairs until I’m on the ground.

  It’s cloudy – no stars, barely a moon – but I know the way back to Westby, even in the dark. The hotel is part of a retail complex on the edge of Langham, close to a cinema, bowling alley and obligatory McDonald’s. I think there’s a law about McDonald’s being mandatory on retail parks. I skirt around the edge of the largely deserted car park, sticking to the shadows until I reach the main road. From there, it’s a straight walk to my village while keeping a few metres into the treeline.

  Not that any cars pass anyway.

  It takes an hour for me to reach the village, then another ten minutes to reach my street. Any thoughts of returning to the house are immediately dispelled because Jim was more right than I could have imagined. Three satellite trucks are parked outside the house, with a handful of people whom I assume to be reporters milling on the pavement. A cameraman with a bright white light fixed to the top of his camera is filming our front door, which still has ‘DEROR’ spray-painted across it.

  I stand for a few moments, watching the surreal sight of the house in which I’ve grown up become the centrepiece of a television show. I want to stomp over there and tell everyone to get lost but know it will do no good. I’ll end up being the deranged sister on camera and they won’t leave anyway – they’ll camp on the pavement until a different story comes along.

  The walk back to the village centre is slow as I try to think like Ollie. If there are any clues in the house, they’re off-limits. The police have already found Helen’s clothes at the college changing rooms, so where else does Ollie spend time?

  It’s not long before I find myself on the bridge again. Since waking in the river, this is the place where I constantly find myself drifting. The river shimmers in what little light there is, the deepest parts in the centre a thick, intimidating, impenetrable black. The only noise is the gentle babble of the water over rocks, until an owl hoots somewhere past the car park, into the woods. When I look up towards the public toilets, I see a shadow next to the block. It’s hunched under the trees, stretching towards me, unmoving.

  ‘Hello?’

  My voice echoes softly and then disappears. I take a few steps towards the car park but the shadow doesn’t move.

  ‘Melek?’

  The final ‘K’ of his name reverberates around the open space but still the shadow doesn’t move. It’s so dark that I’m wary of moving too far from where I am. I should be scared – this village hardly has a good record when it comes to teenage girls out by themselves – but, as before with Melek, I don’t feel anything.

  I think about his choice of lifestyle, bumming around the countryside and living off the land. Some nomadic figure drifting through life. Is that a way to live? I’m not sure. Some of it seems appealing, the absence of responsibility for one, but there’s also the loneliness and lack of security.

  ‘Hello?’

  The shadow still doesn’t move, even when I’m on the far side of the bridge, and I reason that it’s a trick of the light – a misshapen tree or bush.

  I re-cross the bridge, unsure what to do with myself. The village centre is deserted, though it won’t be for long. Soon the media trucks and morbid onlookers will arrive. When Sarah died last year, it only took a day for the tourists to arrive in their ones and twos, cameras and phones in hand to take selfies in front of the river. I always wondered what they were doing with the pictures. Posting them on Instagram with the caption: ‘That spot where that girl died! #dead #deadgirl #rip #withdaanglesnow #drowned #sosad #deadgirlsofinstagram’?

  It can’t only be me who thinks that’s weird.

  I weave in and out of the village cut-throughs and then, as if I was drawn there, I’m in front of my father’s old newsagent. The wooden boards are blank, yet I can’t help but picture the shop the way it used to be. At Christmas, there would be fairy lights rimmed around the glass, with toys and games on display. I would sit under the counter amusing myself while he dealt with customers. It’s one of my earliest memories, perhaps my happiest – and I wonder how he would feel about all of this. About how Mum has gone to pieces; about Ollie. In many ways, everything that’s gone wrong for us links back to when he got ill – not that it’s his fault. Would Ollie have done this if Dad were around? I can’t say for sure but I doubt it.

  The path at the back of the shop is littered with rubbish – shattered wooden pallets, crumbling bricks and the usual array of chocolate wrappers and crisp packets. The gate that leads into the yard at the back of the old newsagent is secured with a wooden board that’s taller than me – except that it’s only been slotted into the gap between the two gateposts and not secured. I slip it to the side and then replace it before heading into the area where Ollie and I used to play together.

  A cement mixer caked with dried grey sludge is in the corner, next to stacks of bricks and wooden beams. There are three or four bags of sand in another corner, with at least two of them spilling onto the floor. A thin layer of dust sits across everything. Even with the mess, the yard seems a lot smaller than it did when I was a kid. Ollie and I would play one-on-one football from wall to wall. I was never that bothered but he’d agree to play hopscotch with me if I played football with him – and so we did. With so little difference in age between us, we were evenly matched at most things until we got to eleven or twelve years old. Before that, we could play for hours in this enclosed space. Recently, Ollie claimed it never happened – not the hopscotch part anyway. I know the truth. Well, that particular truth.

  Aside from the wooden boards, the front of the newsagent is barely distinguishable from when I was growing up – but the back is a mess. Riveted metal boards block the windows, with signs on all the lower ones reading ‘do not enter’. Another wooden board is barricade
d across where the door should be, but there is a graffiti tag across it. I edge closer, wondering if the markings are some sort of insult, but it’s only when I’m close enough to touch the wood that I realise it’s not attached. Much like the one blocking the gate, it’s simply resting in place.

  Someone has been here recently.

  I move the board to the side and then step through the back door of the building, before replacing the wood behind me. Inside, it’s dark, really dark, to the point that I kick something accidentally and send it spiralling across the floor without knowing it was there. It clangs and echoes as it bounces off the wall, making me jump. Something is dripping, though it’s hard to tell from where the noise is coming.

  The flashlight on my phone isn’t great – but the beam of creamy light is better than darkness. I turn in a circle, taking in what used to be the delivery room, where boxes of crisps and chocolates would be dropped off. The edges are coated with sawdust and grime, while the walls are bare of any sort of plaster, exposing the crumbling brickwork.

  There used to be a door leading from the delivery room to behind the counter but the frame is no longer there. Instead, it is simply a gap that looks as if the bricklayer has missed a bit. I head through anyway, into the main area of what used to be the shop and, to my surprise, the counter is still there. It’s not as high as I remember but I can picture myself sitting underneath, banging Lego bricks into each other. The shelving hasn’t been ripped out, either – and I can almost recall the order of the sweet jars that used to sit there. Bonbons were always on the top shelf, with chocolate mice on the bottom. Dad said it was because he put the least-popular sweets at the top so he didn’t have to reach for them so often.