by Jane Holland
‘That’s right. I was in the year above.’
I look again at the smiling boy with his arm around my mum’s shoulder. Who was he? Her boyfriend at the time?
I glance from the photograph to Dick Laney, and then back again. ‘Is that you standing next to my mother?’
‘That it is.’
‘So you were going out with her in school?’
He hesitates. ‘We were just friends.’
I look again at the photograph, my mother’s wary expression, the smile on Dick Laney’s face, his arm looped arrogantly about her shoulders, and am not sure I believe him.
‘Well, the tree decorations look good,’ I tell him, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice, ‘even if they were homemade. Very professional.’
I study my mum’s expression while pretending to look more closely at the Christmas tree and its tin foil decorations. She is smiling too but the smile does not reach her eyes. Then my attention is caught by another face, half-hidden in the crowd of other kids thronging beneath the Christmas tree. A boy with dark hair and dark eyes. He’s not looking at the camera like everyone else, but staring across at my mother and Dick Laney. Brooding, like a child whose toy has been snatched away.
I’ve seen that same expression on someone else’s face, and recently too, I’m sure of it. But whose?
‘Mr Laney, who is this?’ I ask curiously, tapping the glass that protects the photograph.
The office telephone begins to ring, loud and insistent.
‘Excuse me, I have to answer this.’ Dick Laney turns away and picks up the phone. ‘Good morning, Woods Valley Garden Centre, how may I help you?’ He hesitates, frowning. ‘Yes, we sell a wide range of garden ornaments. Gnomes too.’ As he listens to the customer, his gaze slowly returns to the photograph on the wall. ‘Five-thirty close on a Saturday. That’s not a problem, sir.’
He puts the phone down on the charging cradle.
‘Sorry to be interrupting your work like this,’ I say quickly, worried he may ask me to leave without answering my question. ‘I promise I’ll be out of your way in a minute. But who is this boy?’
Dick Laney picks up a pen and taps it on the desk, frowning across at the framed photograph. ‘Which … which one?’
I show him again.
He steps closer as though to check, but I get the feeling he already knows exactly who I mean and is stalling. ‘That looks like Mortimer Clemo.’
I stare, not sure I heard him properly. ‘The vicar?’
‘He weren’t no vicar then.’ There’s a sharp tone to his voice that wasn’t there before. Anger? Contempt? He tosses the pen back onto the desk. ‘Morty was always odd at school, I suppose. But I don’t think he got God until much later on.’ He laughs, and for the first time I see Dick Laney’s resemblance to his son in that sneering look. ‘Probably couldn’t hold down a proper job, and realised the church was his only chance to earn a decent wage.’
‘I didn’t know he went to school with my mum.’
‘Ah, there’s a fair few of us about.’ He glances impatiently at the door. ‘Sorry, but I’ve got work to do.’
‘Of course.’
Before leaving the office, I take a final look at Mortimer Clemo in the old photograph, his tight expression as he stands there in his duffel coat, watching Angela Blackwood.
So both Dick Laney and the vicar went to school with my mother. I’m not sure what to make of that new information. Though, as Dick said, quite a number of the middle-aged people in the village would have been at school at the same time too, and not all of them come from upcountry.
But how close was she to Mortimer Clemo?
Heading towards the exit from the garden centre, I realise the old man in the flat cap is watching me again. He’s standing in the hosepipe display area, right behind one of the largest reels, peering through the gap at me. His cap is pulled down to hide his face but he’s staring at me from under those ludicrous bushy eyebrows. Staring as though he knows me.
There’s only one explanation for that.
I glare at him. The old man backs away, almost falling over a display of spades in his hurry. I watch until he’s shuffled round the corner towards the bedding plants display area, then head out into the sunshine.
That bloody newspaper report.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Denzil was right. I feel much better sitting in his battered jeep with my bare feet on the dashboard, listening to music as we swing across the moor on our way to the north coast. The sun is shining, and I’m wearing my hair down at last, and a short dress for dancing.
I realise Denzil is staring at my bare legs. ‘Eyes on the road, please.’
He laughs, but looks back at the road obediently enough. ‘I love the anklet. Very sexy.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Did you bring your bikini?’
I stare at him in dismay. ‘I didn’t know we’d be swimming.’
He shrugs big shoulders. He’s changed his clothes since work, wearing cut-off denim shorts and an old white tee-shirt with a black leather waistcoat, hanging open. His deejay gear. It’s a very sexy look, but not what I was expecting to see tonight.
‘Beach barbecue. There’ll be surfers there. Maybe some lifeguards off-duty, kicking back for a few hours once the sun’s gone down. Most of us go in the water at some point.’ His sideways grin is wicked. ‘You can always strip it all off. Go skinny-dipping.’
‘In your dreams.’
He laughs again, and shakes his head. His tawny curls bounce. ‘I know which way the wind blows.’
‘Oh yeah?’
Denzil looks at me more seriously. ‘Look, before there are any misunderstandings, let’s get one thing straight. I’m helping you out tonight as a friend, Ellie. I’m not taking you to Newquay so I can get you into bed.’
I stare at him, taken aback by his bluntness. ‘Okay.’
‘The last thing you need right now is someone else screwing with your head. I figured you could do with a night out, that’s all. So shake it loose, whatever’s bothering you, and let’s have a good time.’
I’m secretly disappointed but he’s probably right. I’m still not sure what the question is, but sex is unlikely to be the answer.
‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’
He hesitates. ‘But?’
‘But nothing, really. Things on my mind, you know.’ I lean my head back against the seat, enjoying the wind in my hair. Yes, he’s definitely right. I do need to shake it loose, this feeling of dread and déja-vu. ‘I’m seeing a specialist again.’
‘What kind of specialist?’
I hesitate, not sure if I want to say it out loud. But this is Denzil. I know it won’t go any further. ‘A hypnotist. To help me calm down and maybe remember what happened.’
‘Hypnotherapy?’ Denzil slows down for a tight bend in the lane, staring ahead. ‘Hold on, didn’t they try that before?’
‘When I was younger, yes, and I kept getting in trouble with the police. It might work better now.’ Briefly, I explain about Dr Quick. ‘She regresses me to the day of my mother’s murder, and records everything I say under hypnosis. She does that repeatedly.’
‘Why?’
‘I think she hopes that by asking different questions each time, she may be able to drag up new information from my subconscious. Or at least get my head to process my emotions properly, so I can forget what happened that day and move on with my life.’ I feel uncomfortable, talking about it. ‘Dr Quick thinks I’m stuck in the past, emotionally speaking. That I need closure, as the Americans put it.’
‘But you don’t like going to see her?’ Denzil sounds curt, as if he does not approve. ‘So don’t go. Refuse the treatments.’
‘I don’t have a choice, Denzil.’
‘Everyone has a choice.’
‘I don’t have anything. Except a psychosis.’
‘Says who?’
I close my eyes, seeing their faces. ‘The doctor. The police. My father. Hannah, probably.
Everyone, in other words.’
‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re crazy.’
‘Thanks,’ I say again.
‘No more than I am, anyway.’
I laugh, hearing the cynical note in his voice. ‘That’s me off the hook, then. I’m so relieved.’
The dance music changes to a moody tune I don’t recognise: wistful, haunting, with a female vocalist who sounds American. When I open my eyes, Denzil is mouthing the words as he drives, not looking at me. He seems lost in his own world.
I fold my arms across my chest and stare at the wild moorland ahead of us, a patchy brownish-green of grass and heather strewn with whitened boulders. It’s so barren and wind-swept on the moor that nothing much seems to grow; even the native ponies look stunted and thin-ribbed. It’s a hard life up here. The wild ponies are hunted and driven across the moors once their numbers grow too high, so they can be trapped and culled if no one agrees to purchase them. Like they’re vermin. It’s a disgrace. But I don’t know what the solution is.
I wonder what Denzil is thinking. Perhaps he secretly believes I’m mad too, seeing dead bodies that aren’t there. But then why would he encourage me to turn down hypnosis?
He draws up at a narrow crossroads, tall hedgerows blocking our view in every direction, then roars across the junction, changing gear noisily.
‘Look,’ Denzil says, ‘however bad this gets, don’t forget you’re not under suspicion of any crime here. You were a child when your mum died, and I agree you had no choices back then. Neither of us had choices over what they did to us as kids. But if you don’t want this doctor messing with your head, with your memories of your mother, for God’s sake, then you should tell her – and the police – where to stick it.’
The hedgerows have fallen away to long expanses of flat rock and sparse moorland. The land stretches for miles on either side of the road, no fences, no houses, just the occasional dirt track leading into wilderness. It’s lonely up here on the moors, even when the tourist season is in full swing. There are so many places to hide once you leave the road. There are wooded slopes and crags, and lakes and treacherous marshlands. You could go walking and disappear up here, fall down and die in a ditch, and no one would find your body for days. Maybe even weeks or months.
‘I will. Next time.’
‘Good for you. You’ve got to stand up for yourself. Don’t let the bastards push you around.’
‘I don’t let anyone push me around. I was only a kid the first time round, or I would have said no then. I may say no now, I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Remind me what happened before?’
‘I went round the bend a bit when I was about ten. Ran away from home, did some stupid stuff. The police got involved, forced my dad to take me for therapy. Do you remember?’
‘Not so much, sorry.’ He shrugs. ‘I was probably in trouble myself back then. Too busy fighting my own demons to notice yours.’
Denzil had a difficult childhood too, got arrested a few times as a kid for minor offences. That’s probably why I find it so easy to talk to him. He knows how bad the fallout can become when the world tilts the wrong way on its axis, even for a few minutes.
‘The police recommended Dr Quick,’ I explain. ‘She was just starting out in her practice. She thought hypnosis would help stop the nightmares.’
He looks at me. ‘Nightmares?’
‘It’s stupid, really. Forget it. I don’t like talking about it.’
‘Try me,’ he insists.
I’m embarrassed by this trip down memory lane. It’s the last thing I wanted when I agreed to go out with him. But maybe talking it through with Denzil will help me get the past straight in my own head.
‘I used to wake up in the night and think someone was watching me. Standing over my bed, or by the window. But whenever I put the light on, there was never anyone there.’
He nods as if he understands. ‘So did the hypnosis work?
‘For a while, yes. I stopped having the nightmares.’ I do not mention that they have returned in the past few months. I don’t want him to think I’m unbalanced. ‘But looking back, I think those sessions were as much for the police as me. They wanted me to describe the killer. The doctor used to ask me what he looked like, what he was wearing – ’
‘What?’
Suddenly intent, Denzil reaches out and snaps off the music. He’s so serious, I’ve never seen him look like that before.
‘You were able to remember under hypnosis who murdered your mother?’ he demands, staring at me like he’s never seen me before. ‘You mean, you know who the killer is?’
I shake my head. ‘My therapist usually regresses me to the morning of my mother’s murder to see if we can uncover anything new. But I only ever remember seeing the killer from the back. Oh, and a pair of white trainers. Never any new details. Nothing that the police didn’t already know from the description I gave at the time.’
I choose not to mention what the doctor said, that I had used the word “recognised” this time, talking about the killer’s white trainers. It’s a new and private fact, something I want to keep to myself a while longer.
Denzil says nothing, but I suspect he’s disappointed. He looks back at the road.
‘The police weren’t thrilled by our lack of success,’ I continue, ‘as you can imagine. They were hoping I’d be able to identify the killer. But I probably never saw his face.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘If I’d seen the killer’s face, I would have said so at the time. Told the police, and done a photo fit so they could catch him. I was only six, yes, and I was terrified. But that’s not something you easily forget. The face of the man who murdered your mother.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I hate being hypnotised. It takes away your control, your privacy. There’s nowhere to hide. But I can’t deny that it calms me down. I stopped behaving like an idiot after I had those first sessions, and started focusing on my work instead. So I guess it’s useful in that respect.’
‘And now the police think another few sessions with a hypnotist will sort your head out again? Because of what happened in the woods?’
‘Something like that.’
The jeep is open-topped. The air feels chilly this high up, despite the sunshine. I slump in my seat, my hair whipping in my eyes as we accelerate across the moors.
Denzil glances at me, then strokes a few strands away from my face. ‘Hey, babe, don’t cry. You ever need a bolt hole, you know how to get hold of me.’
‘Thanks,’ I tell him. ‘Always assuming you can remember where your charger is.’
He grins. ‘Always assuming that, yes.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the time we reach the beach resort of Newquay, the sun is much lower in the sky and the air is distinctly cooler. But there’s still another hour or two of daylight left, and people are still wandering about in beach shorts and flip-flops.
The seaside town is crowded, even though the school holidays haven’t started. Denzil drives slowly through the narrow streets, occasionally sounding his horn or waving at a friend on the pavement or in a shop doorway. People grin when they see who it is, and a few young men shuffle over to grasp his hand and chat for a few minutes while we hold up traffic.
Denzil introduces me casually as, ‘Eleanor, a friend of mine,’ then we drive on, getting closer to the beach.
He’s turned down the CD player but music is pounding out of the bars along the main street, so I’m still tapping my foot. The setting sun is in my eyes as we turn downhill, blinding me. It’s a resort town but most of the tourist shops are only just closing up, owners dragging signs inside and lowering metal grills over their windows.
We reach the beach front. The air is fresh and salty, and I can smell fish and chips from one of the cliff top bars above us. Heads turn as the car slows, people staring at Denzil. There’s a barbecue already set up a short way between the cliffs and the outgoing tide,
I can see it smoking furiously. I squint into golden light; there’s a group of teenagers messing about on the sands, silhouetted against the setting sun, chasing each other and shrieking with laughter.
I check my lipstick in the pull-down mirror. I’m probably a bit old for the beach scene. I just hope none of the sixth formers from school hang out here at the weekends. That would be embarrassing.
Denzil finds a spot to park. ‘Come on, we’ll stay a couple of hours, then move on to the club where I’m gigging.’ His gaze is appreciative as I hop out of the jeep. ‘You look gorgeous, by the way. I love that dress.’
I focus on what he just said. ‘You’re deejaying tonight?’
He looks at me blankly. ‘Didn’t I tell you? I got a call after we spoke at the garden centre. A friend of mine is sick tonight, so I’m standing in for him. You don’t mind, do you?’
I usually love to watch Denzil doing his deejay thing with the decks. But part of me is still feeling a bit fragile, so I don’t like the idea of being left on my own for hours while he’s working.
‘When will you finish?’
‘No idea,’ he murmurs, and slips an arm about my waist, pulling me close. I let him, half-seduced by the sheer charisma of the man, though he annoys the hell out of me at the same time. He nuzzles into my hair. ‘You’ll be fine. With your legs, everyone will want to dance with you. Mmm, I love that perfume too. What is it?’
‘Something I got for Christmas.’
‘From Hannah?’
‘Connor, actually.’
He raises his eyebrows as we start walking. ‘Connor. Should I be jealous?’
‘I thought this was just a pity date.’
He sucks in his breath, then grins appreciatively. ‘Ouch, little cat. Yeah, I’m not in the market for anything long-term. So if you and Connor are an item … ’
‘We’re not.’
‘Whatever you say, gorgeous.’ He shrugs, but tightens his arm round my waist. ‘Still, just because I’m not after the whole meal, that doesn’t mean I don’t want a taste.’
I throw back my head. ‘Oh my God, corny.’