Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Jane Holland

  ‘It’s important not to rush these things, Eleanor. Whatever it is that you don’t want to remember, it must be buried very deep in your subconscious. It’ll only come out when it’s ready,’ she says calmly, ‘you can’t try to force it.’

  I nod.

  ‘But maybe next time,’ she adds, ‘you should come on your own?’

  Tris says, ‘Sorry,’ again.

  I swing my legs round and stand up. Tris is there at once, his hand steadying me. I look at him ironically.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Quick. See you next week.’

  I didn’t like her when we had those sessions before. Maybe I was too young to appreciate her peculiar skills, but the sessions felt so intrusive as well, I almost hated her for getting inside my head like this. Now though I’m ready to go back into therapy, to see what my subconscious can dredge up about my mother’s death. Even if I don’t like what we discover. The truth of what happened that day has become too important to me.

  Outside, the clouds have set in for the evening and it’s started spitting with rain. I’m going to get soaked on the way home. We walk briskly back down to the Turk’s Head where I left the scooter parked in a bike bay.

  ‘I’m sorry about the phone,’ he says again, waiting while I find my bike keys.

  ‘I told you, it’s okay. I’m only sorry I can’t offer you a lift home in this weather.’

  ‘The bus will be fine. Or I could ring Connor, see if he’ll come out. We could always go for a drink.’ He smiles wryly. ‘We hardly ever go to the pub together anymore. The farm eats all our time, and our money too. It’s not been easy these past few months. I’m sorry if we’ve both seemed a bit distracted. I really do want to help with all this,’ he says deeply, and puts a hand on my arm. His touch feels warm and comforting, and it’s hard not to give in to my temptation to confide in him properly. ‘If there’s anything you need, you only have to ask.’

  ‘There is something,’ I say quickly, before he can change his mind. ‘I only ever remember what happens in the hypnosis sessions as though in a mist, the vagueness of my memory drives me mad. And Dr Quick doesn’t share everything with me, she’s very careful not to lead me in any particular direction if she can avoid it.’

  ‘You were listening to what I said today though. Was there anything that sounded new this time? Anything important?’

  He frowns. ‘You said … there might have been someone with your mum that day. Someone else in the woods. A man.’

  ‘A man?’

  I struggle to remember for myself. It’s so frustratingly unclear. Like a dream, only half-remembered, not quite real. And just as fast to fade from my memory.

  ‘You didn’t see his face though.’ Tris grimaces. ‘That’s when my phone rang.’

  ‘Well, it can’t be helped. Like she said, we’ll probably get it next time.’ The rain is getting heavier now. ‘Look, I’d better go.’

  Tris lifts his collar up against the rain. ‘Yeah, I’ll see you at the weekend, maybe.’ He turns away, then stops as though hit by a sudden thought. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Connor saw in the newspaper that there’s going to be a memorial service at the village church on Saturday. For that woman we found.’

  I think of the Reverend Clemo at once. ‘Really? Whose idea was that?’

  ‘Not sure. Anyway, I wondered if you wanted to go. With me.’

  ‘You want me to go to the memorial service with you?’

  ‘It’s fine if you’d rather go on your own.’

  ‘No,’ I protest, and wince to hear myself stammering in reply, ‘I … I’d like to go with you. I mean, yes. That’s a good idea. We should both go. Together.’

  Tris nods, and strides away under the rain.

  I stand there, watching him, bike helmet forgotten in my hand, my hair getting wet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sarah McGellan is the dead woman’s name, I discover. Not from the police but from the national newspapers. I find a few reports online and read them attentively, but details are still sparing. Certainly there’s little information there that I did not already know. She liked surfing, she was a popular young woman, nobody has a bad word to say about her. Which is so often the case when a life has been taken violently.

  The killer is described as ‘unidentified’ and still ‘at large,’ and the public are warned to be vigilant and careful when visiting the woods.

  The police released Denzil after only twelve hours, much to my relief. DS Carrick dropped by the house to let me know. Denzil has not been in touch with me since then though. I expect he is furious. And he has every right to be. But I could hardly lie about the anklet.

  Sarah McGellan’s memorial service is organised for Saturday morning at Eastlyn Church at eleven o’clock. Having been mentioned in one of the regional newspapers, and on BBC Radio Cornwall, it is expected there will be quite a large turn-out, so we decide to get there early.

  The vicar has already telephoned Hannah about the service, I discover, apparently determined to invite the whole village. Only for reasons of her own, Hannah chose not to pass that information on to me. But it seems she is happy to go with me and Tris, so I get a lift to the church in her car.

  We queue outside the church along with dozens of other villagers and mourners, everyone in black, very sombre and formal. Even Tris and Connor are wearing clean shirts and black ties; I see them ahead of us in the queue, shuffling into church side by side, and try not to stare. They both look good in formal wear.

  Hannah sees me looking at them, and nudges me. ‘What’s up with Connor and Tris? They haven’t been round much lately.’

  I don’t tell her the truth, that Connor has decided I’m mad and he needs to keep his little brother away from me. Instead I smile wanly, and say, ‘They’re very busy at the farm. Still lambing, I think.’

  ‘Mmm, I love lamb.’

  ‘Hannah!’

  ‘What?’ She tries to look innocent. ‘It’s tasty, is that my fault?’

  ‘Poor little things.’

  ‘Whenever I see lambs in a field, I want to shout, “Mint sauce,” over the fence at them. But people would stare, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘Because you’re a heartless fiend.’

  ‘I’m a pragmatist. If the Great British Public didn’t eat so much lamb, most of those sheep probably wouldn’t exist at all. We only have so much demand for woolly jumpers.’

  I glance at the gravestones on either side as she talks, and repress a shudder as I remember why we are here. My mother isn’t buried here, of course. These are all old graves, most of them Victorian or eighteenth century. Her grave is a short walk up the hill in the new village cemetery, a quiet plot near a row of silver birches.

  I’ll walk up there and visit her after the service, I decide.

  They seat us in the reserved seating at the front of the church, as though we’re family, which surprises and touches me.

  I hesitate, then place my small wreath in front of the altar alongside the others. Pretty white rosebuds and yellow freesias woven together in a green wreath by the local florist. They smell gorgeous, which I feel is important.

  My handwritten note says simply, ‘I’m sorry. EB.’

  As soon as I sit down, Tris appears. He glances at Hannah. ‘Hello,’ he says to us both. ‘Can I join you? Do you mind?’

  ‘I thought you were with Connor.’

  A shadow passes over his face. ‘Connor wants to sit at the back. I’m surprised he came. Last night he said he would be staying at the farm.’

  It’s obvious he’s had some kind of argument with his brother. The front pew is already full, but Hannah makes room by squashing up to the woman next to her, who flashes her an irritated look.

  ‘Come on,’ Hannah tells him cheerfully, ‘you can squeeze in between me and Eleanor.’

  Tris sits down next to me on the unforgiving wooden pew. Our thighs press hard together, and our eyes meet. Instantly I imagine the two of us in bed together, and it’s hard to breat
he after that.

  ‘Hello, Ellie,’ he says to me quietly.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you would come.’

  ‘I found her. It felt like the right thing to do.’

  ‘Me too.’ He pauses a beat. ‘I thought we were going to come here together.’

  ‘We’re sitting together now, aren’t we?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  It’s hot in the church, and the temperature is only going to rise the more people cram in through the doors. Avoiding his gaze, I run a finger round the back of my collar, feeling uncomfortable and restless in the sticky heat.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You know you do. Now stop teasing.’ Tris is watching me, his dark eyes intent. He whispers in my ear, ‘Perhaps we could go back to your place afterwards. Talk properly, without all these people around.’

  I look round at him. I can’t seem to stop staring at his neck, the line of his jaw, his broad shoulder pressed against mine. ‘Yeah,’ I mutter, aching for him but not yet ready to commit to whatever that might bring later. ‘Perhaps we could.’

  Trying to shake that heavy, languid feeling that is so wildly inappropriate in a church, I turn my head, recognising the thick Cornish voice booming in the doorway. The vicar is greeting someone, pointing out a half-empty pew towards the back. He doesn’t sound very friendly.

  The newcomer is Dick Laney.

  The vicar straightens, glancing towards the front of the church. I don’t look away quickly enough, and for a moment our eyes meet. He stares, his mouth tightening. Then he moves on, shaking hands with an elderly parishioner.

  ‘Where’s Jenny?’ Hannah asks, also craning her neck to see who is here.

  I scan the faces again, but don’t see Jenny among the villagers behind us. I see her parents though, and her gregarious friends who run the pub, Seth and Vi, sitting together a few rows back on the left.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I admit, turning back to face the front. ‘Jenny told me yesterday that she was coming to the memorial service. Out of respect, you know. But I know there was a two-hour triathlon training session at the athletics club this morning, so maybe she decided to do that instead. I saw a poster for it on the noticeboard.’

  Hannah’s glasses have slipped down her nose. She pushes them back up, staring at me. ‘Jenny’s thinking about doing a triathlon?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘Wow.’ She pinches one of her thighs. ‘You two are so sporty. I need to do more exercise too. I haven’t been surfing for ages. Perhaps we could drive out to Widemouth Bay together one day, take the surf boards, catch some rollers.’

  ‘That would be fun,’ I agree. ‘Like old times.’

  ‘It’s this admin job at the hospital that does it. I’m either stuck behind a desk or doing paperwork over lunch in the café. I know I’m not overweight, but my legs are getting decidedly flabby.’

  ‘You are not flabby,’ I tell her scathingly.

  ‘How would you describe me, then?’

  I look up her up and down. ‘You are comfortable and sedate.’

  ‘Sedate?’ she repeats, mildly scandalised. ‘What, like the queen?’

  ‘Exactly like the queen.’

  Tris is reading through the Order of Service. There’s a paragraph about the dead woman, written by her family. He reads it out to me in a whisper while I run another quick glance over the rest of the congregation.

  The church seems to be filling up rapidly now. Mostly villagers, but some of the faces are unknown to me. I study the people in the pews near the front. Several groups look like surfers, dressed respectfully enough in black today but with tattoos and piercings, or with exotic beading in their hair. Friends of the deceased? The surfing community in North Cornwall is very close-knit, even out of season, and I know some surfers come back year after year to the same beaches.

  There’s a buzz of hushed voices as someone carries a last minute flower arrangement down the aisle and sets it down next to the altar: white fluting lilies and tall green foliage. There are even a few professional-looking cameras at the back, and someone setting up arc lights.

  Dick Laney sees me and raises a hand in greeting.

  I look away.

  ‘Ellie?’ Tris must have felt me shudder. ‘What’s the matter?

  ‘Nothing.’

  I turn and face the altar, sick with apprehension. Are those national television cameras? I don’t think I’ll be able to stay calm once the media work out the possible connection between my mum’s death and Sarah McGellan’s murder. Which they almost certainly will. It’s only a matter of time.

  Tris squeezes my hand silently, and I flash him an appreciative smile. It’s good to have him with me today. I can’t ignore the stolen photograph, and the stamp on the dead woman’s hand, and seeing Tris at the night club before that note appeared. So many arrows pointing at his head. And piercing my heart at the same time. I can’t carry on suspecting him. It’s wearing me out to keep Tris at arms’ length when everything inside me is dying to let him in.

  The vicar addresses the congregation, and everyone hushes to listen to him.

  I stare up at the large wooden cross while he’s speaking. Then the stained glass windows around us. Jesus with a lamb in his arms, fending off a wolf. I Am The Good Shepherd, it proclaims. Sunlight glows through the stained glass segments, warm and cheerful, making the whole scene brighter, the reds and blues more intense.

  Her body is not here, of course, Presumably it’s still in the police mortuary while the investigation is ongoing. I guess at some point it will be released to the family so she can be buried.

  Someone has set a large, blown-up photograph of the surfer at the front. Her name is underneath on a vast wreath, spelled out in white and yellow flowers.

  SARAH MCGELLAN.

  After my first glance at her photograph, I try not to look again. But I can’t get her face out of my head. Not the happy, windswept face smiling back at us from the photograph, which looks like it was taken at Widemouth Bay around low tide, the horseshoe-shaped beach behind her ablaze with sunlight. No, what I can see is the dead face in the dirt, soil in her hair, one pale hand protruding from a makeshift grave.

  I close my eyes, but she’s still there in the dark of my head. Brooding, watching me. It’s almost as though she’s accusing me of something.

  ‘You okay?’ Tris whispers.

  I manage a smile for him.

  I found you, I tell the dark presence inside my head. Don’t be angry. I saved you from lying undiscovered for months.

  But Sarah McGellan neither answers me nor disappears. Her accusation is like a weight on my shoulders for the rest of the service, making me slump in my seat. There are prayers and hymns, then more talking. Kids she taught to surf get up and say a poem for her. I find myself crying uselessly.

  Then the unlikely opening chords of a Bon Jovi number fill the church. Her favourite music, according to one of the other surfers. He’s a sandy-haired Australian in his thirties who climbs up behind the lectern to talk about Sarah. I remember seeing him once or twice around Newquay, one of those surfers from abroad who come to Cornwall on holiday and never leave. In a shaking voice, he shares what Sarah was like as a person – outgoing, friendly, a talented surfer, and generous with her time as an instructor – and describes how he first met her. He’s in tears by the time he finishes.

  The Australian surfer looks pointedly at me as he gets down from the lectern. For the first time I wonder what people are saying about me. That I am to blame for her death?

  Without being narcissistic about it, the most gruesome things that have happened in this village do seem to revolve around me. But that doesn’t mean I caused any of it. Or that I’m the murderer.

  Again I am struck by the feeling that this is some kind of witch hunt. That this must have happened in the past to women like me. People got sick or died, then some scared villager pointed the finger at a woman living suspiciously on her own. Next thing h
er neighbours were hanging her from the nearest tree.

  We stream outside into thin, windy sunshine once the service is over. The atmosphere seems lighter. People are talking more loudly, kids are running about, and some of the surfers are even laughing amongst themselves. Only the sandy-haired man is still crying.

  I turn my face to the sunlight and push Sarah McGellan’s image out of my mind. I’m not to blame, I tell her. I’m sorry about what happened to you, but it’s not my fault you died.

  DI Powell is giving a statement to journalists on a patch of neatly-mown grass near the church gate. There are daisies under his large black shoes, polished to a high shine.

  I say to Hannah, ‘I’m going up to visit Mum’s grave.’

  ‘Want me to come with you?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. Thanks.’

  She kisses me on the cheek, then glances slyly at Tris, who is standing beside me. ‘I’ll see you later then. I’m on another night, by the way. But this is my last one. Back to the day shift for a fortnight next week. I can’t bloody wait.’

  The sun is very hot, and I begin to wish I had worn sunglasses, like the inspector. I move under the shadow of a churchyard elm, leaning against the rough trunk. Tris comes to join me and I smile at him, remembering how close we were sitting in church, the heat of his body against mine.

  ‘Hey,’ I say softly.

  ‘Hey you too.’ He strokes a finger down the sleeve of my black blouse, his touch making me shiver. ‘I thought you were going up to the cemetery.’

  ‘In a few minutes.’

  ‘I don’t think Connor will miss me. Not in the mood he’s in. I can walk up with you.’

  ‘I’d like that. First I need to speak to DI Powell, assuming he’ll agree to it.’

  Tris has been openly admiring my figure, but something flickers in his face at that, and he raises his gaze to my face. ‘What about?’

  ‘I want to know if he’s got any further with the investigation. It’s driving me mad, not knowing who the killer is, or when he might kill again. Especially given that he seems to see me as a target.’

  ‘No one will lay a finger on you while I’m with you.’