Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Jane Holland

  A short silence, then, ‘You okay?’

  ‘Not so much.’

  Shut up, Eleanor.

  ‘I thought you had been let off the hook for those sessions. They found the body, they know you’re not having a relapse.’

  ‘I chose to keep going of my own accord,’ I tell him, but warily, not quite sure how much I should trust him. ‘I used to hate hypnosis when I was a kid, but I find it oddly relaxing now.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, seriously,’ I insist, stalling on what I really want to say.

  ‘So where are you now? Still at work?’ He does not sound much like a man who has been warned off seeing me. ‘We can come to you. It sounds like you could do with some company. It won’t take long, I’m already in town with Connor.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  He sounds awkward. ‘Shopping, believe it or not.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Seriously, it’s true. We both needed new wellington boots, and Connor wants to drop by the vet and buy some eye medicine for one of our sheep.’

  ‘What an exciting life you two lead.’

  ‘Hang on a tick.’ The phone is muffled for a few seconds. I get the impression Connor is talking to him. Is that the mad girl? Tell her to get lost. Only do it subtly so she does not have a clue we’re trying to distance ourselves from her. Then Tris comes back on the line, sounding friendly but a little stressed. ‘Okay, I’ll meet you on my own. Connor’s got to shoot off before the vet closes. But I can always take the bus home.’

  This is probably unwise. If I meet Tris now, and confront him about the photograph, I could end up going into my hypnosis session with my head messed up. But isn’t that why I rang him? So we could talk?

  We can’t ignore each other forever, despite what’s happened, even after his arrest and the stolen holiday snap I found in his room. There may be an innocent explanation for both those things.

  Besides, we’re still friends and that has to mean something. Or am I naïve to believe that?

  I make the decision. ‘I’ll be heading your way soon. Towards town from the school. Meet me in the Turk’s Head.’

  ‘A secret assignation. I like it. How long?’

  ‘About fifteen minutes?’

  I see Tris before he sees me. I’m leaning beside the jukebox in the Turk’s Head, watching passers-by while I sip at a tasteless half-pint of cola stacked with ice chips. I feel more like having a large glass of chilled white wine, but I’m on my scooter, and I still have my hypnotherapy session to get through first. It would hardly impress the good doctor for me to turn up tipsy.

  There’s a sharp wind, and Tris comes up the steep slope of the High Street towards the Turk’s Head with his head down, hands in his pockets. His shoulders are hunched in his black jacket, collar turned up against the cold.

  He does not look much like a killer. And presumably the police agree, because they released him without charge.

  I walked past a rehearsal of the Shakespeare play, ‘Macbeth,’ in the main hall earlier today. The kids were doing some kind of modern version, I guess, rigged out in camouflage. I stopped in the doorway to listen for a few minutes. It made me think about all those bloody murders in the play, and the duplicitous nature of killers. ‘There’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face,’ the old king says just before he is stabbed to death by Macbeth, who is supposed to be his host and his friend.

  Whoever is killing these women may be exactly like that. A friend, perhaps even a colleague here at the school, someone I know and ought to trust. Whoever it is, he must be hoping he can drive me mad with these tricks and messages, by wrong-footing me and making the police doubt my judgement.

  Why, though? I keep coming back to motive, and there doesn’t seem to be one.

  Still, does a serial killer need a motive? Aren’t they just driven to kill and can’t help themselves? I’m not sure of my logic or my information, and that worries me. I need to sit down in front of my laptop and educate myself about serial killers. Otherwise I run the risk of being surprised by this one. Because I’m beginning to think a serial killer is precisely what we have here, however much DI Powell may try to deny it. Two women, two bodies, two distinct murders. And two consecutive numbers on their foreheads. If not a serial killer, then a wannabe. A killer with pretensions of greatness.

  Tris pushes the pub door open and glances about for me. I raise a hand and he smiles, then stops a foot away, as though afraid to hug me. Something flickers in his face. ‘It’s good to see you, Eleanor. How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m not dead yet. That’s a plus.’

  His smile turns wry. ‘Yeah, same here.’

  I look at him. ‘Shopping with Connor is that bad, huh?’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  He’s right. I try to imagine Connor being all motherly, dragging his brother round the shops, and fail.

  I find a table by the window while he wanders to the bar for a pint. I think about the photograph I found in his bedroom with my dad’s handwriting on the back. It was definitely missing from my keepsake box under the bed.

  How did Tris get it? More importantly perhaps, why did he take it?

  I could ask him outright, and am tempted. But then I would have to admit that I’ve been in his bedroom.

  ‘I’m sorry the police kept you in for questioning,’ I say when he comes back with his pint.

  He shrugs, saying nothing, but his expression is uneasy.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, they arrested Denzil today,’ I tell him.

  He looks at me directly then, startled. ‘Why?’

  ‘They think he might be involved.’

  ‘That’s crazy.’

  I’m surprised. ‘I thought you didn’t like Denzil.’

  ‘I don’t. But he’s not a killer.’

  ‘I agree. It’s not that clear-cut though. The police think … ’ I make a face and play with a beer mat, spinning it round and round. I dislike not feeling able to be straight with Tris. ‘They found something on the dead woman. Something that belongs to me.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  I hesitate, remembering DI Powell’s warning. Completely confidential. And Tris may still be one of their suspects, for all I know.

  ‘I’m not allowed to say, sorry. But it’s something I lost when I was out with Denzil last week. You remember, when we bumped into each other at Newquay.’

  He nods, not replying, but there’s that wary flicker in his face again. Like he’s hiding something.

  ‘Tris, what is it?’ I ask urgently. ‘If you know something, you have to tell me. Or tell the police. I won’t hold it against you.’

  ‘I don’t know anything, Eleanor. What I know would fit inside a match box. Less than that, even.’

  ‘I was in your room when you came home from the police station,’ I blurt out, unable to rein in the guilt any longer. ‘I found a photo there, a photo of me and my mum on the beach at Polzeath. It had my dad’s handwriting on the back.’

  He is staring at me, his eyes wide with shock.

  ‘You … you stole it from my bedroom, didn’t you?’ I continue, pressing him. ‘From the box under my bed?’

  ‘You broke into my bedroom? I thought there was something odd when I got back. The window was open and – ’

  ‘I’m sorry I broke into your house. It was wrong, I agree. I’m a very bad person, okay? But that’s not important right now. What about the photo of my mum?’

  ‘Jesus Christ. You think I’m the one, don’t you? Even though the police questioned me for hours, then let me go because there was no evidence at all, none whatsoever, you still think I killed that woman we found.’

  I think of the shadow man standing by my bedroom window. That dark menacing figure, his face unseen. Could it really have been Tris, come to steal photos from my keepsake box?

  ‘Well?’ he demands.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I don’t know anything anymore. But you di
d have that photograph in your room, and it was strange how you seemed to know exactly where to look for that body.’

  ‘I did what?’ He shakes his head. ‘No way, Eleanor. I was just following your lead. You were the one who said, let’s dig here. I already went through all that with the police a hundred times or more. Don’t try and unload your baggage on me.’

  ‘All right, so where did it come from? The photo?’

  He hesitates. ‘I found it.’

  ‘Oh, come on …’

  ‘I swear to God. I found it.’

  ‘Where?’

  He drinks about a third of his lager, then replaces the glass carefully on his beer mat. ‘I was out with the dog about ten days ago. And I found the photo just lying there on the ground. Near the old mill.’

  The old mill again.

  ‘But I’ve never even been down that way. How could one of my old photographs have got there unless someone stole it?’

  ‘I agree,’ he says calmly. ‘Only it wasn’t me who stole it.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me about it immediately? Why not give me a call and say, hey, Ellie, you’ll never guess what I’ve just found while I was out walking the dog?’

  When he does not reply, I stare at him accusingly. ‘You must have known it belonged to me, Tris. That nobody else could have a photo like that. It has my dad’s writing on the back, for God’s sake. My name. My mum’s name. So why not tell me you found it?’

  His face is shuttered, unreadable. ‘I had my reasons.’

  ‘Which were?’

  ‘Not yet, okay? Not yet. Trust me on this.’ He necks the remainder of his lager in one long, inelegant swallow, then wipes the corners of his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I’m not ready. My head’s not straight. But I’m glad you got your photo back.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Just don’t ever break into my bedroom again.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘Or, if you do,’ he says, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his seat to glare at me, ‘make the bloody bed before you leave next time.’

  I should be furious with him, and more suspicious than ever, but for some reason I’m not. Maybe because I know – or at least I sense – that we’re still friends. Still the best of friends.

  ‘Your room was a total fucking tip,’ I agree. ‘I’m not joking, you need to get in there with some air freshener.’

  ‘Better come round with your pinny on then, and tidy up.’

  Is that a tease or a serious invitation?

  I should be offended but I’m not. Instead I’m imagining myself in his darkened bedroom, the two of us alone together. I look down at the ice chips melting in my drink, and wish I could have some alcohol. But my appointment is in less than ten minutes now.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ I say, ‘one day.’

  We’re sitting very close now. He reminds me even more of a grizzly bear, squeezed into this narrow seat under the window, his body too broad and muscular for the space. His long legs stretch out to one side of the table, muscular in tight jeans. His eyes seem very dark, locked on mine now and refusing to look away.

  ‘You’ve known me forever,’ he says softly.

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  ‘I know it looks bad, with the photo you found, and me being arrested. But you know I had nothing to do with any of it.’

  ‘Do I?’

  His eyes close briefly. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I’m sorry, really I am. But I don’t know who to trust anymore.’ I need to break the spell his voice is putting on me, and the only way I can do that is with blunt honesty. ‘And I’m scared. That thing of mine the police found … They said it was a message for me from the killer.’

  Tris has opened his eyes and is staring at me intently. ‘What kind of message?’

  ‘They don’t know what it means. But whoever is behind these killings, it seems obvious that he can get to me if he likes. That he knows me personally.’

  Someone has selected a song on the jukebox that reminds me of long hot Cornish summers when we were teenagers, still in school. One of those mellow lyric numbers. I surprise myself by remembering all the words to the chorus. What was I, fifteen, when it came out? Something like that.

  I see him listening, glancing sideways at the jukebox like it means something to him too.

  ‘Good memories,’ I say.

  He nods slowly, then swears under his breath. There’s a tormented look in his face when he turns his gaze back to me. ‘Eleanor.’

  I wait, watching him.

  Only he doesn’t finish. Out on the High Street a police car rushes past to some incident, sirens blaring, blue lights revolving rapidly.

  We both look round to watch it pass. The song on the jukebox finishes and another takes its place, more disco than ballad. In the aftermath Tris seems to change his mind about whatever he was going to say. He pushes aside his empty pint glass, and then gets up from the table.

  ‘Come on, time’s up. You’re going to be late for your appointment if we sit here any longer.’

  Reluctantly I grab my bike helmet and follow him outside the pub. The wind is still sharp, nipping at us. He is staring across the road at the local newspaper board outside the newsagent. BODY FOUND IN WOODS.

  I shrug deeper into my leather jacket, trying not to over-think this. ‘Will you come in with me?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Take your time.’ The voice is softer this time, less demanding. ‘Can you tell us where you are, Eleanor? Look around. Can you describe your surroundings?’

  I tell her that I’m standing next to Mummy in the woods. She’s dropped my hand. I’m staring up at the leaves, so bright with the sunlight falling sharp and hot through them. There are birds up there, unseen among the leaves. I’m breathing gently, listening to their high sweet song …

  ‘Is anyone else there? Anyone else in the woods?’

  I’m wearing my new red wellington boots today. They’re so smart. Look, do you like them?

  ‘They’re lovely. But I want you to look around, Eleanor.’ A pause. I stay where I am, blinking in the sunlight. ‘Are you looking around? Good girl, well done. Now tell me, are you and Mummy alone in the wood? Or is someone else with you?’

  I smile up at Mummy, but she’s not looking at me anymore. She’s staring at something behind me. Her face changes. I don’t look back, but I know there’s someone there. Someone coming through the trees. I can hear the crack of twigs underfoot.

  ‘Look round, Eleanor.’ The voice is urgent now. ‘Look behind you. Who else is there with your Mummy?’

  I don’t want to look. I don’t like it anymore. I kick the dirt with my wellingtons.

  ‘Is it a man? Can you describe him?’

  I can’t look. Mummy makes me run. Keep going, keep running. I run one way, then another. I’m not sure where to go. I fall over and get dirt on my hands.

  I don’t like this game, Mummy. I want to go home. I start to cry. But I can’t hear her voice anymore.

  Mummy? Mummy?

  ‘Go back, Eleanor.’ A long pause. ‘You go back, don’t you?’

  Yes, I go back to see if I can find Mummy.

  ‘And you see someone. A man.’

  I can’t find Mummy at first. Then I see her lying on the path. There’s a man bending over her.

  ‘Can you describe him? He’s wearing a pair of white trainers.’

  Yes, white trainers. I see them up above me afterwards. Flashing through the trees. Like he’s running.

  ‘But now, can you see his face? Maybe he straightens up and looks round at you.’

  He doesn’t see me. I stay behind the tree until he’s gone. I only look out once, then never again. There’s a bird croaking on one of the branches above me, like a warning not to move.

  ‘But you see him when you look round the tree? I know it’s hard but I need you to concentrate on the man, Eleanor. Can you describe his face?’

  My hands are dirty. Nasty and
dirty. There’s a cut from a bramble, and it’s bleeding. I’m going to get in trouble.

  ‘No one’s angry with you, Eleanor. You’re safe here with us. Now take it very slowly. Have you seen this man before? Do you know who he is?’ The voice pauses. ‘If you can’t describe him, maybe you can tell us his name?’

  I struggle against the questions, deeply afraid. A phone rings, shrill and intrusive. To my relief the sunlit trees begin to fade, tilt into the past, sliding away …

  ‘Shit.’

  I know that voice but it jars with the dream I’ve just left. I’m awake again now but horribly disorientated. My head is aching. Where am I? My eyes open on the familiar dull surroundings of Dr Quick’s office, the blinds shut against grey daylight.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr Quick.’ Tris is speaking, his voice deep and apologetic. ‘I set the alarm on my phone to remind me of the time when the bus leaves. I forgot to turn it off.’

  Dr Quick ignores him. She is leaning over me, her smile concerned. ‘Eleanor, are you okay?’

  When I nod, she helps me sit up against the cushions, then hands me the obligatory glass of water. ‘Small sips, remember. A rather rude awakening, I’m afraid. How’s your head?’

  ‘Aching,’ I admit.

  ‘Dizzy? Nauseous?’

  I shake my head, then hand back the water. ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’

  Tris looks from me to the doctor. ‘Are you able to … Is it possible to start again?’

  Dr Quick glances at the clock. ‘Not now. A pity, I thought we were really making progress this time.’

  She goes back to her desk under the window, smoothing out her dove-grey skirt before sitting down. Studying her desk diary, she flicks over the pages for a moment. She crosses something out, then looks over at me, brows arched.

  ‘Shall we meet again next week, Eleanor?’ she asks. ‘Same day, same time?’

  ‘Did I remember something different?’

  ‘I’m afraid we didn’t get quite far enough today to be sure. But maybe next time we’ll be able to break new territory.’

  She writes my name down in the book, then lays down the pen and meets my eyes, her expression serious but sympathetic.