by Jane Holland
He manages a half-grin. ‘I look forward to it. Especially the screaming and running about.’
‘I do a good impersonation of a chicken with its head cut off. It’s all good though.’ I glance back at the grave, and abruptly change my mind. ‘Or it was until now. Shit.’
Tris turns to follow my stare, then gets up and fumbles for my hand. He squeezes it hard. ‘All good, remember?’ he says, for my ears only. ‘Don’t let him wind you up.’
My old nemesis is trudging through the trees towards us, kicking aside brambles and leaf detritus as he walks. Detective Inspector Powell. Like the two constables, he too does not look amused by this interruption to his Sunday afternoon. To my surprise, he’s in faded jeans and what looks like a yellow tee-shirt with a sun design under a light blue jacket. Almost hippyish. The large black wellington boots look totally mismatched with the rest of his outfit, like he’s been dragged away from a relaxing day off with his family to come and dig up a corpse. Which I’m guessing is precisely what has happened.
Behind him I see several other police men and women coming down the slope, and what look like plain clothes officers following slowly, some carrying metal boxes and other heavy equipment.
Forensics.
Powell comes to a halt in front of us. He nods at Tris, then looks at me broodingly. ‘So you couldn’t leave it alone.’
‘I told you there was a body.’
‘So I understand. I’ll take a look at that in a minute.’ He glances across at the shady patch of soil by the stream, the one uniformed police officer standing guard over it. ‘You just stumbled across it, I’m told. While out on a Sunday walk.’
I nod, mutely.
‘Which is an idea I find hard to believe. Not exactly a relaxing spot for you, these woods.’
I shrug.
‘Hurt yourself?’ DI Powell is looking at my cheek.
I shrug again.
Clearly frustrated by my silence, his gaze interrogates Tris. ‘I don’t think I know you. Boyfriend?’
‘Friend,’ I say sharply, not letting Tris speak for himself. ‘His name is Tristan Taylor.’
The inspector looks back at me, eyebrows raised. ‘You still have friends, then?’
‘I have hidden qualities.’
‘I’m sure you do, Eleanor.’
‘So what’s next?’
‘Nothing too demanding. You’ll need to give a formal statement, of course. Back at the station.’ He looks at Tris. ‘You too.’
Tris says nothing, merely looks back at the inspector. The two of them lock gazes and say nothing. Like two male stags locking horns in the woods.
First the inspector thought I was a liar. Then he thought I was mad and needed psychiatric help. Now he seems to suspect me of having planted a dead body in the woods just so I can be proved right. Which is precisely what I thought Tris was trying to suggest, but coming from the inspector it feels a thousand times more offensive.
Perhaps it’s an urge to make him give me respect that makes me blurt out, ‘It’s not the same woman, you know.’
‘What?’
‘She’s someone completely different. I never saw that woman before in my life.’
A shout interrupts us. ‘Inspector?’
Reluctantly, Powell tears his bewildered gaze from me. ‘What is it?’ he demands, his voice deep and impatient. One of his team is signalling him from the graveside, a woman in white forensic overalls and hood. ‘Okay, yeah, I’ll be right over.’
Most of the other police have reached the shallow grave and are setting up their equipment around its narrow perimeter. One man in a leather jacket and jeans is kneeling in the dirt, pushing back the lid on a large case of expensive photographic equipment. The photographer, presumably. Two of the others are already erecting a white tent above the half-dug grave, as if to shield her from onlookers.
Powell summons one of the police constables who were first there. ‘This your call-in, Timms?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘These two make any calls since you arrived? Speak to anyone?’
‘No sir,’ the policeman says, looking perplexed. ‘Only to each other. There’s no signal in these woods, anyway. We even had a job getting the radio to work.’
‘Look after them, would you? I want a full statement from both of these witnesses, to be taken separately,’ he says, emphasising that last point. ‘And at the station. Not here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Powell looks back at me, still frowning. ‘I’ll talk to you later, Eleanor. At the station.’
‘I can’t wait.’
I look up at a familiar cry: there’s the black hunched figure of a crow perched on a high branch above us. It caws again, glossy throat convulsing, then swoops away through the leafy canopy of trees.
In the old days, some Cornish witches kept a crow as a familiar, others a midnight-black cat. I’ve been to the Museum of Witchcraft at Boscastle on the north coast, seen all their spooky exhibits, the weird mandrake roots and feather totems. I enjoy reading about that time too, sixteenth and seventeenth century England and the witch hunts. But until now I never found any of those superstitions particularly frightening. They’re not real, just strange old stories. Folk tales and legends strung together to scare people in the dark.
Sitting in a wood though, a few feet away from the half-buried body of a murdered woman, it’s difficult not to wonder if there is such a thing as true evil.
‘Arrange for a car to take them to the station,’ Powell tells the constable. ‘As soon as possible.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
‘And no reporters, you understand? Cordon this whole area off. I don’t want anyone in this part of the woods who isn’t directly related to this inquiry.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I watch the detective inspector head over to the grave, sidestepping the team already working there in order to get a proper look at the victim. Powell stops, staring down at the loose patch of soil without speaking while the plain clothes police officer talks to him rapidly.
I remember what the inspector is looking at, and shudder. That could be me in that shallow grave. Or Hannah. I don’t know the dead woman, but that’s how personal this feels.
PC Timms glances at us, then fumbles with his radio. All we hear is static. ‘Bloody signal.’ He hesitates. ‘Wait here. Don’t talk to anyone. You understand?’
Tris looks furious. ‘So, are we suspects? Are we being charged with finding a dead body? Because last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.’
‘Calm down,’ the constable says wearily. ‘Nobody’s accusing either of you of anything. The inspector wants a statement from you both, that’s all, and it’s better if you don’t talk to anyone else until you’ve given that. Now stay here. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
He hurries away towards the base of the slope, where it seems the signal on his police radio is stronger. He speaks into the radio, head bent, presumably arranging a car for us to the station. Powell is talking to the woman in white overalls. Both of them look very serious, as they should. Perhaps if they had not assumed I was round the bend when I first saw a dead body here in the woods, this new victim would have been found sooner. Or might not have been here at all. Because it feels like the killer is playing games with us. With me, more specifically.
When the white forensics tent closes round the grave, shutting the team out of sight, I pretend to throw stones into the stream, but actually I’m covertly studying Tris, which surprises me. It seems I’m monitoring his response as much as my own. Do I still think one of my own friends is guilty, that Tris of all people is somehow connected to this?
Perhaps, perhaps not. It’s infuriating, but I can’t make up my mind. Whatever the truth, he does seem to be behaving oddly today. And not just because we found a body together.
The constable comes back, looking relieved. ‘Right, job done. There’s a car waiting for you up top. It’ll take you to the station where a police officer will sit down with yo
u and take a formal statement. Come on, I’ll walk with you.’
‘Thanks.’ I glance at Tris, but he does not appear to be listening. ‘Tris?’
He’s staring at something on the damp soil between us. A crow’s feather is lying there, black and dusty.
When I was a kid, I always thought of my mum whenever I saw a crow’s feather on the ground. Perhaps because there was a crow above us in the trees that day, making that odd cawing noise in the backs of his throat, more like a jeering laugh than birdsong.
‘Tris?’ I say again.
‘Sorry?’
‘Time to go.’
‘Right. Yeah, okay.’
Tris runs a hand through his hair, then smiles at me. But behind the smile is that blank, unreadable look again, like he’s concealing something. From me. From the police. From everyone.
‘Sorry,’ he says again, ‘I was miles away.’
I smile back at him, trying not to let my anxiety show. Please, not Tris. Don’t let it be Tris.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Once he has a signal, Tris phones his brother on the way, keeping details to a clipped minimum on the advice of the police driver. Always protective of his younger brother, Connor meets us about twenty minutes later at the police station. We’ve only been there a few minutes when he walks in. He’s wearing his old, olive-green, waterproof jacket with the patches at the elbows, the left pocket slightly ripped. Wellington boots, covered in dried mud. Probably been out in the top pasture most of the afternoon where they’re mending and replacing fences while the weather is fine. His dark hair is untidy; he’s smoothing it down as they buzz him through the door into the waiting area.
‘Hey,’ Connor says, and hugs me.
Tris looks mildly irritated to see his brother. ‘Christ, you didn’t have to come all the way down here. I told you, I’ve got this. It’s just a witness statement.’
Connor ignores him. ‘You’ll need a lift home afterwards. Both of you. I brought the car.’
‘Thanks, but I could be here for ages,’ I tell him calmly. ‘DI Powell wants to speak to me after I’ve given them a statement. And he’s still down in the woods. Take Tris home when he’s finished, don’t worry about me. One of the officers will give me a lift back. Or I could give Hannah a call, see if she’s free.’ I check the time on the wall clock in the waiting area. ‘She’s not at work until six.’
He looks at me. ‘So there was a body.’
I decide not to tell him it’s not the same woman. ‘It appears so.’
‘You must feel vindicated.’
I make a face. ‘I feel a bit sick actually. It wasn’t a pretty sight.’
‘Jesus, come here.’ Connor gives me another hug. I can smell sheep on his old jacket. It may sound gross, but I’m comforted by the farmy, homely smell. ‘We can hang on until you’re finished here. You don’t need to trouble Hannah.’
One of the police officers comes out, a burly man with reddish hair and unlikely sideburns like some Victorian copper. ‘Sir,’ he says politely to Tris, ‘they’re ready for you now. Interview Room Two. It’s this way, if you could follow me?’
Connor says brusquely, ‘I’ll be out here when you’re done, Tris. Okay?’
‘I told you, don’t wait around for me.’
‘You’re my brother. I’m going to fucking wait even if this takes all night. You got that?’
Tris looks frustrated, then glances at me, his face grim. It’s obvious there’s something else on his mind, but he shrugs and follows the officer through the swing doors without saying anything else.
Connor drops into one of the plastic seats along the wall of the waiting area. It squeaks under him protestingly. ‘This is so fucked-up.’
‘Tell me about it.’
He buries his head in his hands, sucks a deep breath in through his nose, then looks up at the white panelled ceiling. He’s looking tired too, I realise, as though leaving the club early last night had not meant he got much more sleep than I did.
‘Sorry,’ he says, looking at me sideways as I sit next to him. ‘I’m not being much of a friend here. You must have had a horrible shock, Ellie. How are you coping?’
‘So-so.’
‘That doesn’t sound too good.’
‘I’ll survive.’
‘Good to hear.’ He squeezes my knee briefly. ‘You’ve not had an easy run of it. But your luck can only change for the better.’
We sit together in silence for a while, our shoulders touching. I fret about Tris, and can feel his brother doing the same. Tris has not been himself since his dad died. I know better than most how long and bloody the bereavement process can be, and perhaps I’m expecting too much too soon, but that gaunt look in his face as he followed the police officer to the interview room has left me with a chill feeling in my heart.
Something’s nagging at me again. But my mind keeps slipping away from the answer every time it swings round to face me, jumping over it, like a scratch on a CD.
I remember passing the vicarage this afternoon, Mortimer Clemo staring out of the window at us. I can’t help feeling that the body in the grave was left there for me to find, just like the dead woman lying across the path. But why? Am I being punished for some past mistake or sin? Is this karma? I’m not dragging a fictional God into this, but I do believe in justice, whether natural or man-made. And this is beginning to feel like revenge of some kind. But revenge for what?
‘I hear you went out for a long walk with the dog this morning,’ I say, trying to distract both of us from our morbid thoughts. ‘Trying to keep fit?’
Connor laughs, and relaxes in his chair. ‘I’ve got a long way to go before I can compete with you, but yes, I thought it might be a good idea not to let any of this muscle,’ he says, slapping his stomach, which is impressively flat, ‘turn to flab through lack of use. The farm takes every waking moment of the day. I haven’t been to the gym in months.’
‘According to Tris, hauling sheep around counts as exercise.’
He grins, but it’s lopsided. ‘Actually, I could do with fewer dead sheep. It’s already bloody expensive just keeping the farm going without losing livestock too.’
‘Is that a thing? Like, frequent?’
‘At the moment, yes. That’s why I was out this morning. I didn’t tell Tris this, he hates bad news, but Dick Laney rang early to say he’d seen another dead ewe on our western boundary. Looks like she lay down and couldn’t get up again. Sheep do that sometimes. Get stuck on their backs, like beetles.’
‘How awful.’
He grimaces. ‘That’s sheep farming for you. Death and shit. And sod all money. It’s small wonder so many farmers shoot themselves.’
The swing doors clatter open. DI Powell is standing there, looking directly at me, a bunch of official-looking manila folders in his hand. He seems flustered, like he’s been hurrying, his silvering hair in disarray. He has changed his clothes though, which may account for it. The hippy look has gone, and in its place is a dark, sombre suit and polished shoes.
‘Ah, Eleanor,’ he says briskly, nodding to me. ‘Shall we talk?’
‘I haven’t given my statement yet.’
‘That’s fine, we’ll get to that in due course.’
Connor stands up at the same time as I do. His voice is very deep and angry. ‘Just hang on a minute. This isn’t right, Inspector. My brother is a witness. Not a suspect.’
Powell tucks a pencil behind his ear, and gives Connor a quick, assessing look, as though worried there’s going to be trouble. ‘And you are … ?’
‘Connor Taylor. You’ve got my brother Tristan in one of your interview rooms.’
‘We need to take a statement from him, Mr Taylor, that’s all. Standard procedure in a murder enquiry. Your brother is not under suspicion.’
‘Murder?’
The inspector hesitates, glancing down at his folders. There’s a flash of irritable impatience in his face; perhaps an awareness that he’s been indiscreet.
‘
Obviously nothing’s official yet,’ he says. ‘We need to hear back from the pathologist first. You know how it is. Small steps. But I’m sure as soon as we’re satisfied with your brother’s statement, he’ll be free to go.’
Connor takes a step forward, his voice low but aggressive. ‘I bet you’re feeling stupid now though.’
DI Powell raises his brows. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You didn’t believe a word Ellie told you. Now she’s found the body in the woods that you couldn’t find. You and your merry men.’
‘Thanks for your input. But if you could hold off on your speculations until we’ve established the facts here – ’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’d like that, Inspector. You’ll be wanting to keep your incompetence as quiet as possible.’
There’s an awkward silence, then DI Powell gestures me to follow him. ‘Miss Blackwood?’
Connor isn’t finished yet though. ‘Hold on. Should I be arranging for a solicitor for my brother?’
‘That’s up to your brother, Mr Taylor, not you. But I’m sure if he needs legal counsel, the duty officer will ensure he receives it.’ Powell nods to me, seeming to dismiss Connor from his thoughts. ‘Shall we go through? Sorry to rush you but I’ve got a meeting in an hour.’
As I follow the inspector through the swing doors, I give Connor an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sure Tris will be fine. Try not to worry. I’ll call you later, yeah?’
‘Yeah, later.’
The interview room is clean and looks to have been newly decorated. The walls are so white they seem freshly painted, almost dazzling, and the window blinds are dust-free. The floor is carpeted in a bland mushroom colour, no marks showing, the drag of the pile indicating that someone hoovered there in the past twenty-four hours. Walking in there gives me the impression of a place run like clockwork, possibly overseen by a control freak with a rubber glove fetish. Hannah and I could do with someone like that at the cottage.
The whole building is new though, a recent high-profile build stuck on a hillside overlooking the town. So maybe it’s that squeaky-clean feel you get with a new house, like nothing’s bedded in yet. One of Connor’s friends bought a semi-detached on a new housing estate in Truro last autumn, and it was like this when we dropped by during a night out, that odd ‘new build’ smell, something between disinfectant and fixative.