Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (15 page)

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 you 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.

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.

A police constable is already standing in the
room, hands behind his back, face impassive, as though he’s always been there, part
of the fixtures. He looks at me, then away. Like I’m contagious.

‘Thank
you for coming in, Eleanor. Please take a seat.’ The inspector shrugs out of
his jacket and slings it about the back of his chair. ‘Let’s make ourselves
comfortable. Would you like a coffee? Maybe a cup of tea?’

I sit down at the interview table. ‘Thanks, tea
would be good.’

He
is carefully laying out the manila and plastic see-through folders he’s brought
in with him. ‘Sorry for the delay, we’ll start in a couple of minutes.’ He glances
up at the constable, and then nods. Like it’s a pre-arranged signal between the
two of them. ‘Two teas, constable.’

The
constable nods back solemnly. ‘Sir.’

It’s
not a signal, I tell myself firmly. That’s just the stirrings of paranoia
speaking. I force myself to smile at the constable as he leaves the room.
‘Thank you.’

He
does not smile back.

Now it’s just the two of us. I place my hands
on the table, then remove them to my lap because my palms are sweaty and I
don’t want the inspector to notice. Last time I did anything like this my
father was in the room because I was a child. Now I’m an adult and alone.

Though
if my dad was here now, he would probably shout or throw up on the inspector’s
highly polished shoes. So I tell myself it’s a good thing that I’m on my own.

I
am worried about what Connor said outside though. Do I need the duty solicitor?
Should I demand a lawyer along with the obligatory cup of tea? Surely I am only
here as a witness, like Tris, and not under suspicion myself?

It’s
ridiculous but I can’t seem to shake this feeling of unease.

The
interview room is functional, not particularly welcoming. There are grey blinds
at the window, blocking the late sunlight, a bare noticeboard displaying nothing
but a No Smoking notice, and this table with four chairs set about it.

The
door opens, and I glance round. It’s PC Helen Flynn, the woman officer who came
to the cottage when I saw the first body.

‘Ah,
PC Flynn, there you are.’ DI Powell gestures her to sit down beside him. ‘We’re
just waiting on some cups of tea. Are you having one?’

‘No
thank you, sir,’ she says, her manner very correct, seating herself
straight-backed in the seat opposite mine. My eyes meet hers. Hers are coldly
professional. There will be no help from that quarter.

The
constable returns with two plastic cups of tea, and places one in front of me,
and one in front of his superior officer. The name on his uniform sleeve says
Hanney. My tea does not look very appetizing, a greyish brown swirl with flecks
of white. Powdered creamer? Or off-milk?

‘Sugar?’
the constable asks quietly, pushing a plastic spoon and small paper sachet
towards me.

I
shake my head.

It’s like a dinner party without the dinner. I
wonder if paper hats will be handed round next.

Powell brings a notebook out of his pocket and
lays it in front of him, then arranges it neatly alongside the manila folders,
making sure everything is properly aligned.

Obsessive
Compulsive, much?

PC
Flynn prepares the statement sheets. She asks for my full details. I answer in
a monotone, feeling like a criminal. I am half disappointed not to find a
mirrored wall in the room behind which psychologists are lurking unseen,
waiting for me to make some fatal slip. To reveal my guilt. My secret
psychosis. They’ll be waiting a long time for that to happen, I think grimly,
and lay my hands flat on the table, looking straight across at Detective
Inspector Powell. Sod the sweaty palms.