by Jane Holland
As he reaches the car, I wind down my window to speak to him. ‘You look bloody awful, Dad. What’s the matter?’
‘I lost the dog,’ he says shortly.
‘You lost Churchill?’
‘I couldn’t sleep, so I took him out early for a walk. But he ran away.’ He won’t look me in the eye, bending to gaze past me at Jenny; I can smell alcohol on his breath. ‘Hello there. I know you. You work with Eleanor at the school, don’t you? Another PE teacher?’
She smiles politely. ‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘Jenny Crofter.’
‘Jenny,’ he says, nodding. ‘That’s it, yes. I knew I remembered you.’
‘So where’s Churchill now?’ I ask, interrupting.
Churchill is a black Labrador, eight years old now and seriously overweight. Like most Labs, he may run about like a crazed puppy at times and loves nothing better than chasing round the farmyard after a ball, but he’s basically lazy. The sort who sits down on the way back from a long walk and looks at you sideways, as if to say, ‘I’m done. Can you go and get the car now?’ So this tale of him running off strikes me as odd.
‘I let him off the lead over at Tinker’s Field and he bounded away, straight into the undergrowth,’ my father explains. ‘He … he wouldn’t come back, however hard I whistled. I followed him into the woods, but he was nowhere to be seen. So I came back the short way, past that old derelict hut by the river.’
I nod, wondering when I should tell him about the body I saw. And the police.
‘I thought I heard barking inside the hut, so I forced my way in through the brambles,’ he continues, holding out scratched hands and wrists, uncannily like my own, ‘but of course there was no sign of Churchill. It must have been someone else’s dog I could hear barking.’ His speech is slightly slurred, and I wonder if he’s had any sleep at all, his eyes are so bloodshot. ‘I guess he’ll come back on his own when he’s ready, useless bloody dog.’
‘Is your leg okay? You’re limping.’
‘I hurt my ankle, that’s all. Nothing serious. Twisted it in some sodding rabbit hole.’ Dad glances down at me in the passenger seat. ‘Hold on, why are you heading back to the cottage? Shouldn’t you be at work by now, Ellie?’
Jenny sees my hesitation and intervenes. ‘I’m dropping Eleanor back at home, Mr Blackwood. She saw something in the woods when she was out running this morning.’
He doesn’t understand. ‘Saw something?’ he repeats, smiling uncertainly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘A dead body,’ I mumble.
My dad’s smile is wiped away. His hands clench on the window frame, his face loses colour; he looks twenty years older in a few seconds. I remember that expression on his face. He wore it for weeks after having to identify my mother’s body.
‘What?’
I put my hand over his and squeeze, staring up at him. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. But we can’t stop to talk. The police are on their way. I expect they’ll want to ask me some questions. Maybe take a statement from me. Perhaps I could come round later and talk to you then?’
My father stares, then takes a step back. His voice sounds strange. ‘Today? You saw a body in the woods today?’
‘I know how it sounds, but ….’
But he is already walking away, heading back along the lane to the farm. To the ruins covered in plastic sheeting that he calls home. The sun has come out again, illuminating the grey back of his head. It will not last though. Those ragged clouds are still massing on the edges of the valley, ready to darken the morning.
‘Dad?’ I call after him, but he does not answer.
Jenny looks at me. ‘Is he going to be okay?’
‘I have no idea.’
She sits with the engine running, staring after him. ‘The look on his face … ’
‘There’s nothing we can do. It was a shock.’ I pause, feeling the irony behind that, then add, ‘For both of us. A real shock. I’ll go and see him later. Right now, I’m sorry but I need to get home.’
‘Of course.’
‘I appreciate it. I know this is making you late for work.’
Jenny puts the car into first and accelerates up the lane towards the small cottage I share with Hannah.
God, what will Hannah be thinking? My phone call woke her up. She must be in a state, waiting for me to get back, to explain properly.
‘I told you, Eleanor, the school will understand. I don’t want you to worry about that, this is more important. And you must take all the time that you need.’ Jenny sounds concerned but focused, already thinking ahead to damage control. ‘I’ll talk to Patricia myself as soon as I get there, straighten it all out for you.’
I look down at my hands. Like my legs, they’re trembling. Shock, of course.
‘Thanks, that’s very kind of you.’
‘What are friends for?’
I wonder how my father is taking the news about another body in the woods. I must go and see him later as I promised, make sure he’s coping.
First though, I need to be sure I’m coping too. Because it’s possible I’m not, and am not even aware of it.
Hannah is waiting for me in the doorway to East Cottage. It’s been a dwelling-place for nearly a thousand years, probably one smoky room in medieval times, now extended to a living room and narrow kitchen downstairs, with a bathroom and two small bedrooms upstairs. A gurgling rivulet passes in front of the house on its way downhill, and years ago someone built a miniature stone bridge across the stream so we don’t have to wet our feet getting to the front door.
‘Are you okay?’ Hannah looks pale, her fringe damp, eyes slightly bloodshot, precisely like someone who has not had enough sleep but has splashed her face to wake up in a hurry. ‘Oh my God, your hands. And your legs too.’
‘I’ll survive.’
‘But is it true?’ She raises a hand in greeting to Jenny, who is backing up her Renault in our small turning area. ‘I mean, I believe you. Absolutely I believe you. But it’s so incredible, isn’t it? To have found a body in the woods today, of all days …’
Today, of all days.
I watch Jenny pull away. ‘I should probably ring work. To be polite.’
‘Eleanor?’
‘Yes,’ I agree, crossing the little stone bridge into the cottage. I’m dying for a cool shower. I glance at the table in the hall but the charging cradle is empty. ‘It is incredible. Have you got the phone?’
Hannah holds out the phone automatically and I take it, beginning to look through the menu for the number of the cover supervisor. But even as it starts to ring, I’m interrupted by the familiar, unmistakeable roar of a quad bike.
Hurriedly I stop the call and go back outside just in time to see Tristan on his quad bike, swinging wildly out of the lane and towards the cottage.
His brother Connor crouches behind him in the trailer, clinging onto the sides of the metal box as he is jolted up and down on the uneven track. Completely illegal, of course, but nobody round here cares about that shit. Not even the police, who turn a blind eye most times to antics that would get you arrested up country.
Connor is two years older than Tris. Older and wiser, usually. This morning though both men look fierce. Like they’ve come prepared to fight.
I glance back at Hannah, who has come to stand in the doorway. ‘Okay, what did you tell them?’
She looks guilty. ‘Enough to get them round here.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘I need to get some sleep, I’m sorry. I’m dead on my feet. But I didn’t want you left on your own today. Not with the police coming.’
Tris and Connor are not blood brothers. Tris was adopted. Nonetheless, they are almost never seen apart. Though that’s begun to change now they run the farm together. Tris does not share his brother’s fanatical work ethic, so I’m not entirely surprised to see him today. But I would have thought Connor had better things to do than come racing up here in response to Hannah’s summons.
So much for my chance of a shower.
‘Jesus, Ellie.’ Tris is out of breath, wiping dirty hands on his overalls in a way that tells me he’s planning to hug me. ‘Hannah told us what happened. You idiot, I told you not to tempt fate like that.’
I glare at him silently.
‘Oh come here,’ he says, relenting at once. ‘You look like you need a hug.’
‘No, really,’ I mutter, but he pays no attention.
He throws his arms around me and embraces me tightly.
Tristan is twenty-four, my own age, dark-haired and built like a bear, though thankfully without all the fur. Unlike his older brother, who may be tall and dark too but is curiously hairless when he strips off at the beach or the pool. For years the three of us knocked about together at school, me and him and Connor. I even dated Connor a few times in sixth form, though it never worked out. At school I preferred my dates to be a little bit broken, and Connor could never compete with Denzil in that respect, whose love affair with narcotics is well-known.
These days I’m more interested in Tristan. But he still sees me as the sister he never had, and I’m not about to wreck things for either of us by going weak-kneed over his stubble.
Connor looks at me past his brother’s shoulder. Like the other two, he’s concerned. ‘Shit, Eleanor, today of all days. You must be in pieces.’
Today of all days. It’s becoming a common theme.
I glance back at Hannah and wonder exactly what was said on the phone between the three of them.
No wonder nobody believes me. Finding a body in the woods on the anniversary of my mother’s death? Put like that, I wouldn’t believe it either. But when the police bring the body out, that will put an end to all this uncomfortable subtext.
‘It was awful at the time, but I’m getting over it now.’ I smile wryly. ‘More or less. To be honest, I’m still processing what happened.’
‘No police yet?’ Connor asks.
‘They said they’d be here within half an hour. Then the circus will really kick off.’
Tris rubs my bare arms as though trying to warm them, looking into my face. He’s had some difficult mood swings since his dad died, but I can identify with that. I meet his eyes, which are so dark they’re almost black. He’s a real Celt, I guess. But tall with it.
‘You’re so cold, Eleanor, you’ve had a shock. Hot sweet tea. That’s what you need.’
‘Or a large gin,’ Hannah says frankly.
I make a face. ‘Hold the gin. I don’t think the police would understand. And I need to run cold water over my hands. They’re stinging like crazy.’
We go into the cottage, into the narrow galley-style kitchen with an old gas oven and a microwave, white-washed walls, and rows of spotlights in the low, beamed ceiling. It only has one tiny window because it’s the oldest part of the house, set into the bank by some fourteenth century builder. The white-washed walls are at least three foot thick. ‘These walls will keep you cool in summer and warm in winter,’ the estate agent said when we first looked round the rental property. So close to my dad’s farm, it had been the obvious choice for me. Hannah had been harder to persuade; five miles from the nearest bus route, Little Well was not perfect for her job at our small local hospital. But passing her driving test had made the house-share possible.
I had not wanted to live alone when I came home after university, and could not bear to live with my father. Hannah is an easy person to live with. She has hidden depths, but I’ve always been secretly relieved that she keeps them to herself. I have enough trauma in my past for both of us.
I cool my stung hands under the cold tap for a few minutes, then Hannah fills the kettle and puts it on to boil. Silently, Tris moves a few magazines and dirty plates off the table to make room for us to sit down. I watch him, a little embarrassed. Hannah and I have never been great housekeepers.
Connor leans against the white-washed wall opposite, looking at me. His hair is damp; it looks like he jumped out of the shower to come over here with Tris. I feel guilty to be upsetting everyone’s day, which is ludicrous, given what has happened.
‘Talk to us, Ellie,’ Connor urges me. ‘We’re all friends here. What did you see in the woods?’
‘I thought Hannah told you?’
‘She wasn’t very clear.’
Hannah makes a face at him. ‘I was half-asleep. Sorry.’
Frankly I would rather gnaw my own arm off than go through it again. But endless repetition is part of the game. ‘I saw a woman’s body.’
‘Where?’ Connor asks, staring.
‘Down by the stream.’ I watch steam begin to rise from the kettle. ‘She was naked.’
Hannah looks horrified, as if being dead is not that appalling on its own, but being naked too is somehow unacceptable. ‘Oh my God, she was naked? You didn’t say that before.’
I stiffen, hearing the sound of a car out the front. The engine is quiet, ticking over as it idles outside the cottage.
No putting it off now.
Tris has heard the car too. He looks round. ‘The police.’ His dark gaze meets mine. ‘What are you going to tell them?’
‘The truth.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Connor?’ Tristan nods at the door.
‘Right, yes, I’m on it.’ Connor shoots me a reassuring look, then disappears through the hall and out the front door. I hear deep male voices in the lane. The police, trying to get in to talk to me, have come up against one of the Taylor brothers.
My protectors, I think drily.
Tris starts to make the tea, pouring hot water straight into the mugs, not bothering with the teapot.
‘I wish I’d listened to you,’ I tell him.
‘Hmm?’
‘Your text last night. Advising me not to go through the woods on my run.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m my own worst enemy sometimes.’
‘I just thought it would upset you,’ he says. ‘Not that you’d find … ’
‘I know, it’s okay.’ I manage a wry smile. ‘Who knew, right?’
Hannah looks at me sideways. ‘Somebody knew.’
‘That’s for sure,’ Tris agrees, his face solemn for once. He glances round at Hannah, nodding. ‘It’s one hell of a coincidence.’
I shiver. ‘God, don’t.’
‘Sorry, just putting it out there.’
I nod, watching him work. It’s odd that Tris is so big and broad, built like a rugby player, yet seems perfectly at home in a kitchen, his movements assured as he makes the tea. But like me, Tris got used to doing jobs round the house from an early age, helping out his brother Connor. Their mum left when they were still young, walked out after a family row and never came back. And their dad died of cancer three months ago, so now it’s just them.
It must be lonely at Hill Farm, I think suddenly. Or an endless house party, depending on your point of view. Two good-looking men muddling by on their own.
You wouldn’t know that they weren’t related, not at first glance. But up close, you can see that their eyes are different – Connor’s are much lighter, more like hazel – and Tristan is broader, more muscular.
Tris puts a mug of tea in front of me. ‘So,’ he asks quietly, ‘this dead woman you saw, did you know her?’
I shake my head. ‘Why?’
‘No reason,’ Tris says, and runs his thumb reassuringly across the top of my knuckles.
‘You think I should have known her?’
His gaze comes back to mine, startled. ‘No. Why would I?’
I decide not to answer that.
Connor returns with two police officers in tow, who shuffle in after him with no apparent sense of urgency. The narrow kitchen feels suddenly crowded. I study the two newcomers, but don’t know either of them from the investigation into my mother’s murder. The greying policeman l
ooks to be in his fifties. The police woman is younger, smiling warmly, too busy checking out Tris to bother with me. She’s in her late twenties and very blonde, her fringe straight and even.
‘Detective Sergeant John Carrick,’ the policeman is introducing himself, taking out a black notebook and pen with an easy air, as though all this is going to be routine. Which maybe it is. ‘And this is PC Helen Flynn. We’re here to talk to Miss Eleanor Blackwood about a reported sighting of a body.’
‘That’s me,’ I say, standing up.
‘Pleased to meet you. No, don’t get up. This won’t take long.’
Detective Sergeant Carrick draws up a chair opposite me and Tris, making himself comfortable with the air of a man who has been at work for hours and has not had a break yet. I don’t believe his smile.
‘So you’re Eleanor,’ he says, studying me closely before glancing at the other three. ‘And these are … friends? Family?’
‘Friends.’
Connor bends forward to shake the sergeant’s hand. ‘Connor Taylor,’ he says coolly, ‘and this is my brother Tristan.’
Hannah introduces herself shyly.
I may not know DS Carrick or the other police officer, but from the way he said, So you’re Eleanor, I’m guessing they know about me.
Bloody marvellous.
DS Carrick looks at me from under heavy grey brows. ‘I’m told you found something in the woods this morning, Eleanor. A woman’s body.’ He waits for me to nod before continuing, ‘And it’s eighteen years to the day since your mother was murdered in those woods.’ Again, Carrick pauses, his eyes on my face. ‘Is that right?’
Connor has been leaning against the wall again, arms folded as he listens. Now he straightens up, angry and protective. ‘Excuse me, but how is that relevant?’
‘I’m just verifying the date of Mrs Blackwood’s murder.’