Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by Jane Holland

  I meet his gaze, struggling to understand what this warning is about. ‘You … you think Tris killed those women, don’t you?’

  ‘Christ.’ Connor sits back, closing his eyes. His hand on the table top clenches slowly into a fist. There’s agony in the lines of his face, yet he looks to me like a man on the verge of violence. ‘I can’t believe you said that. To me, his brother. Please, just let it go, would you?’

  I don’t know what to say. But I feel awful.

  Unsteadily, I push back my chair and stand up. ‘I have to visit the ladies,’ I tell him. ‘Then we’re going back to Eastlyn. This conversation is over.’

  Connor does not reply.

  I walk to the ladies and stand there, staring at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes over-bright. It looks like I may have betrayed myself with Tris, and that possibility makes me angry. I thought what I said to him was private, just between the two of us. But he told Connor about the photograph. He told his brother about me breaking into their house.

  Perhaps Connor is right. Perhaps I don’t know Tris as well as he does.

  Though in actual fact, if I track this back, things started going wrong as soon as I started listening to my body instead of my head.

  I managed to persuade myself that Tristan Taylor had nothing to do with the murders; I even went to bed with him on the strength of that belief, for God’s sake. But now I don’t know what to think. If his own brother suspects him …

  I go to the loo, then splash my face with cold water. I tell myself, I can do this, I can do this. And I have to think about Jenny. She’s still missing, and she needs someone to be looking for her, to believe that she can be found before the worst happens. Even if I have to ask tough questions of my friends to achieve that.

  When I walk back out to join Connor, I find him looming in the dark pub entrance, looking out at the rain.

  He smiles when he sees me, his face lighting up with relief. ‘Ellie, good.’ Maybe he thought I had slipped away on my own without telling him. ‘I just spoke to Tris. They’ve finished with him. Look, I’m sorry about what I said before, I went too far. I’ll drop you at the cottage, then head on over to the station to pick him up.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I know then that Connor is not my enemy, that he has never been my enemy. He just wants to protect his brother against me. Even if he thinks his brother may be guilty of murder.

  There’s something nagging at me though, like one of those cryptic clues in a crossword puzzle. Something Connor said in the car on the way here. It could be the vicar for all I know. Though I suppose we can’t blame the poor sod for having a dead body in his cemetery.

  My brain keeps returning to it, examining it, then pushing it away again as unsolvable, too tired and stressed to unravel the tangle of ideas. Maybe tomorrow my head will feel clearer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  We’re back to glorious weather the next morning, though the Cornish fields are still sodden from last night’s rain, the air fresh and damp. It’s Monday morning and I’m going back into work, even though my head is still screwed up over what Connor told me. There’s been no news about Jenny, and it’s hard to enjoy this beautiful morning and not wonder if she is still breathing. It feels like my fault she has disappeared, and guilt is making it hard for me to focus on work.

  I’m standing beside my scooter, keys in hand, when another police car arrives.

  It’s a few minutes after eight o’clock.

  PC Helen Flynn, who’s on bodyguard duty today and was already waiting in her car, ready to follow me to work, climbs out and stares in surprise at the approaching car.

  ‘It’s Detective Inspector Powell,’ she says. ‘And that’s DS Carrick with him. I did hear something on my radio earlier, but … ’ She tails off as the inspector gets out of the car, perhaps deciding it is better to let Powell do the explaining.

  But what is he here to explain?

  I turn, leaning against the car, half expecting to be hit by the worst news imaginable. That Jenny has been found and is dead. But DI Powell is smiling.

  ‘On your way to the school, Eleanor? I hope PC Flynn was planning to accompany you.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ she says, standing to attention beside her vehicle, hands clasped behind her back.

  ‘Well, I don’t think that will be necessary.’ DI Powell pushes his hands into his trouser pockets, pleased with himself. ‘You’ll be glad to hear we’ve got him.’

  I stare. ‘Got him? You’ve caught the killer?’

  ‘We picked him up yesterday for questioning, kept him overnight, and charged him first thing this morning.’ The inspector glances at his watch. ‘Nearly two hours ago, actually, after he confessed.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To double murder.’ The inspector has an air of grim satisfaction. ‘He’s confessed to the murders of both Sarah McGellan and Dawn Trevian.’

  My hands clench into fists. It’s hard to keep my voice level. ‘Is it Tris Taylor?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss his identity. That’s a police matter.’

  ‘This affects me. I’ve got a right to know.’

  ‘It’ll be made public soon enough,’ he says soothingly. ‘Meanwhile, you’re safe, Eleanor. Think about that. The murderer is in custody.’

  ‘Please, Inspector.’

  He sighs, then shakes his head. ‘Strictly between the two of us, it’s not your friend Tristan.’

  I feel myself sag with relief. It’s not Tris. Not Tris.

  ‘Is it the vicar, then?’

  ‘The vicar?’ Now it’s his turn to stare. ‘You mean, Reverend Clemo?’

  ‘I’ve suspected him all along. He was there on the anniversary of my mum’s death, the morning I found the first body in the woods. I could swear he’s been watching the cottage too, creeping around at night. Hannah even heard noises in the walls once; I think he’s got some way of getting into the house unseen.’ I press on urgently, though DI Powell is shaking his head. ‘Inspector, he knew my mother back in school. Knew her well. Even went to my parents’ wedding, he admitted it himself. And he’s been acting so suspiciously – ’

  ‘It’s not him.’

  ‘But the way he looks at me, he seems so angry about something. And I saw a police car parked outside the vicarage a while ago. So I thought maybe – ’

  His brow clears. ‘I see what this is about. Reverend Clemo’s mother-in-law has come to live at the vicarage with him and his wife. Unfortunately the old lady has Alzheimer’s. Apparently she’s been getting very upset about all the disturbances in the village, becoming confused and believing the police are there to arrest her. I don’t think it would be indiscreet to say there was an incident recently where she went missing for hours. Some officers came out to search the village and woods for her. So I imagine the vicar isn’t feeling too happy with you at the moment.’ He pauses a beat, watching me. ‘Not your fault, of course. But perhaps he associates you with his mother-in-law becoming upset and difficult to manage, which is why he’s been less than friendly.’

  I’m shocked to find that I’ve been basing my conclusions on a totally false premise. So much for having an analytical mind. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘How could you?’

  ‘But I still want to know who you’ve arrested,’ I insist.

  Powell hesitates, looking from me to PC Flynn. Then he makes a small, fatalistic gesture. ‘The man’s confessed and we’ve formally charged him. It looks pretty watertight. I expect we’ll be making a formal announcement to the press soon, so it can’t do any harm to tell you first.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The man we’ve arrested is Richard Laney.’

  I stare, too stunned to react.

  ‘Dick Laney? From the Woods Valley Garden Centre? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Trust me, he’s our man. We have his confession. Once he realised we had strong forensic evidence, Laney crumbled. Told us everything.’

  ‘Th
e sacking used to wrap the body in the cemetery,’ I say, thinking rapidly. I remember helping Dick with his delivery up at Hill Farm. ‘Is that the forensic evidence? You mean it came from his garden centre? But of course it would have his fingerprints on it. He and Jago deliver those sacks all over north and mid-Cornwall.’

  The inspector looks at me, frowning, and does not comment.

  ‘What about Jenny?’ I ask. ‘Did Dick Laney tell you where to find her? Has he hurt her? Is she safe?’

  ‘Unfortunately, Miss Crofter’s disappearance is still unresolved,’ Powell admits.

  DS Carrick, who has been leaning against the police car, listening to us, now straightens up. ‘So far, Mr Laney is denying any involvement in Jenny Crofter’s disappearance. But there is a possibility that her case isn’t connected to these killings, so we’re pursuing that at the moment.’

  ‘In other words, you don’t have a clue where she is?’

  Carrick glares at me. ‘One step at a time. That’s how the police have to move. Mistakes get made when people try to rush things. And this has been a good result for us.’

  ‘Why would Dick Laney do it though? Kill those women and taunt me with their bodies?’

  ‘We’re not certain yet,’ Powell admits. ‘He may have been harbouring some kind of grievance against you and your family. In particular, there was an old photograph – ’

  ‘From when he was at school with my mum,’ I say abruptly. ‘Dick Laney had a crush on her once, when they were teenagers. But I don’t think she was ever interested in him.’

  Powell looks at me sharply. ‘You knew about this but didn’t tell us?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was important.’

  ‘Everything is important in a murder enquiry, Eleanor. If there’s anything else you can tell us, anything that might illuminate Mr Laney’s motives, let’s hear it now. ’

  ‘I saw an old photo on the wall in his office. That’s it.’

  Powell nods. ‘Okay, leave it with us.’ He nods to PC Flynn. ‘You had better go back to the station, constable. Miss Blackwood no longer needs round-the-clock protection.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Helen Flynn says, smiling, unable to disguise her relief, and climbs back into her car.

  ‘You will keep looking for Jenny Crofter though,’ I say as the two detectives turn back to their car, ‘won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ DI Powell agrees smoothly, opening his car door. ‘She’s our number one priority.’

  I don’t think he grasps the irony of what he’s just said.

  Down by the water, the sandy, half-moon bay at Widemouth dazzles us with afternoon sunshine, the beach busier than it looked from the car park. The narrow stretch of water between the yellow and red-striped flags – the area deemed safe by the lifeguards for swimming and body-boarding – is thronging with body-boarders, come, like me, straight from a day job in search of big rollers. Despite the sunshine, even the innocent-looking shallows will be freezing after the recent rain. But I’ve been coming here since I was a small child, and I know the sea in summer only feels icy for the first few minutes. After that the body adjusts. Besides, a properly-fitted wet suit protects surfers from the worst of it.

  ‘Here, can you zip me up?’ I ask Hannah, and she puts her car keys between her teeth, then zips up my wetsuit while I hold my hair up out of the way.

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ she comments, eyeing me disapprovingly.

  ‘I’ll gain it back.’

  Hannah faces away from me. ‘My turn.’

  I fasten her wetsuit at the back, fixing the Velcro strip across the top of the zip.

  ‘Done.’

  As always, we head straight for the surfing zone marked by black and white flags to one side of the main sweep of the bay. The surf board feels long and awkward under my arm, but that’s only because it’s been months since I last went surfing. Muscle memory will kick in soon, and I’ll feel at home here again. I look to our left, the wind whipping at my hair. There’s a line of jagged rocks there, exposed by the receding tide and jutting out of the sand, where we used to go netting for crabs and sea anemones when we were younger. Me and Hannah and Tris and Connor, with our dads looking on. That seems an awfully long time ago now, we have all changed so much since those days.

  Guilt nags at me. ‘You don’t think this is disrespectful? Coming out to the beach, going surfing while Jenny is still missing?’

  ‘You came here to speak to Denzil too though, didn’t you?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So this isn’t just for leisure. Well, it is for me. But you need to learn to relax, Ellie, enjoy the moment.’ Hannah looks at me sternly. ‘You’re always taking responsibility for things that go wrong, even when it’s nothing to do with you. It doesn’t always have to be your fault, you know.’

  Perhaps I do often think it’s my fault when things don’t go to plan. But where Jenny’s concerned, I’m probably justified in thinking her continuing disappearance is down to me.

  I was in work today, and there were worried looks and questions from staff and students alike. She’s a popular teacher and her absence is deeply felt. Where’s Miss Crofter? What’s happened to her? When will she come back? As if I magically know the answers to such questions. As though I’m the one who’s to blame, the one who’s spirited her away from them.

  ‘I just hope Denzil can help,’ I mutter.

  There’s a surf school in training on the sand: new surfers lying face-down on their boards on dry land, pretending to paddle with their arms. The surf instructor is a fit-looking young man with fair hair flopping into his eyes as he demonstrates the correct arm movement for the newbies. His wetsuit is folded down to his waist and his bare chest is smooth and tanned.

  He looks up and grins as we pass. ‘Hey, Hannah, how are you?’

  She squints at him, unsure for a moment without her glasses, then smiles. ‘I’m good, Alex,’ she says warmly, as though she knows him well. She glances at his students. ‘Surf school still keeping you busy, I see.’

  ‘Damn newbies,’ he agrees, and they both laugh.

  I look at her sideways as we reach the water. ‘Okay, who was that?’

  ‘Oh, just Alex. We learned to surf together when we were kids. Now he teaches surf. We still hook up now and then for a drink.’

  ‘Only a drink?’ I glance back over my shoulder at Alex. ‘He looks very … athletic.’

  ‘You have a filthy mind, Miss Blackwood,’ she says, but laughs. ‘Don’t judge me by your own standards.’

  I laugh too, but only mechanically. I’m sure Hannah means nothing by it, but it’s obvious she was thinking about Tris spending the night when she said that.

  A sliver of fear works its way under my skin, despite the sunshine and the pleasure of being in the open air like this. I haven’t spoken to Tris since that night, and his silence is beginning to worry me. He must know about Dick Laney’s arrest. Why hasn’t he been in touch?

  Perhaps Connor is putting pressure on him to stay away from me. A two-pronged approach to keep us apart. It would not surprise me. But if Tris genuinely wants to see me again, even to come over for the night, I have no intention of saying no. I’m sorry for Connor, he’s a good friend and I know he only wants to protect his brother. But I don’t believe Tris is as ‘damaged’ as Connor seems to think. Or if he is, I have yet to see how and why.

  Because his mother walked out on them when Tris was still very young, perhaps.

  I guess that would mess up most people’s heads, to know their mum loved them so little she chose to leave them behind after a family split. But Tristan has always struck me as someone who copes with the blows, and keeps going.

  Is it possible I have been wrong about him all these years?

  Hannah drops her towel and keys a safe distance from the water’s edge, then splashes out ahead of me, thigh-deep now, surprisingly keen on surfing given her total lack of sportiness at school. Though of course her father has been bringing her here every summer since she was si
x, so she’s a surfing expert compared to me. Today she’s left her glasses in the car to avoid losing or breaking them, which means I have to wave to get her attention once we’re more than a few feet apart.

  ‘Look,’ she shouts back at me, pointing out to sea. ‘Is that Denzil?’

  My surf board still tucked under my arm, I shield my eyes and stare in that direction. It’s Denzil, all right. I would know that mop of tawny hair anywhere. But it won’t be easy to reach him. He is already far out past the body boarders, lying face-down on an electric-blue surfboard, paddling hard to reach the bigger breakers beyond the shelf.

  ‘I’ll get him for you,’ Hannah shouts.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I can wait.’

  But she can’t hear me over the noise of the tide.

  ‘What?’

  She turns, waist-high in the rolling waves, shielding her eyes and grimacing myopically at the shadowy figures of other surfers between us. It’s clear she can’t see me.

  ‘Ellie, where are you?’ she shouts.

  ‘Over here.’

  I wave, and she grins, finally spotting me. She waves back, but keeps stubbornly pushing out, holding her board under one arm. ‘Come on, you wuss. It’s not that cold.’

  I follow, wading slowly into deeper water, my board an awkward weight under my arm that keeps dancing to be free, to swim on the waves.

  Staring out across the ocean, I try to envisage America somewhere out there beyond the hazy blue line of the horizon. How far away is the US from this exact point on the Cornish coast? Three thousand miles? Maybe more? I imagine a woman standing on an Atlantic beach in the United States, surfboard in hand, looking out to sea and wondering …

  I can’t see Denzil anymore. I can’t see anyone nearby, actually. The water is very deep now, and the waves are hitting me side-on as I keep swimming out to sea. Hannah surfs past me with a triumphant shout, half-crouched on her board, an absolute natural in the water.