Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (26 page)

‘My
dad used to take us there all the time when we were lads,’ Connor admits,
looking ahead as the road narrows towards the summit. ‘My mum hated it too,
funnily enough. They had a museum of curiosities. We would go in to look at the
exhibits while she sat outside in the courtyard and had a coffee.’
 

I
think of the hidden room in the farmhouse. The stuffed animals I saw. The
weasel with its bared teeth.

‘Yeah,
I remember that place. I never liked it either.’

Connor
makes a face. ‘Each to their own, I guess.’ He hesitates, and his hands tighten
on the wheel. ‘The police came round early this morning to speak to us. They
took Tris to the police station.’

I’m
stunned, and do not know what to say at first. Then I manage, ‘But why?’

‘The woman whose body you found in the
cemetery,’ he tells me, ‘it turns out she was a dental assistant in town. Tris
knew her. In fact, he’d been to that dentist’s surgery a few times and spoken
to her.’

‘
Spoken
to her?’

‘Chatted her up. You know what he’s like.’

No, I
don’t.

I fold my hands in my lap and digest this
information. Dawn Trevian: that was what the inspector had called her. And Tristan
knew her. I think back to the moment he saw her, remember his stiffness, the appalled
shock on his face. Had it been more than shock, though? Had it been
recognition?

So
why had he not said something?

Because he killed her
, a little voice whispers in my head, and it’s hard to dismiss it as
nonsense. But what other reason could there be to lie?

I don’t know what I feel inside at this
revelation. Numb. Disappointed. But not surprised.

Connor
studies my fraught expression, then says reassuringly, ‘Look, I had a call from
DS Carrick while I was waiting for you at the pub. He told me Tris isn’t under
arrest. They’re just waiting for DI Powell to get a chance to question him.
Apparently the inspector was over at the mortuary in Truro most of this
morning.’

I
shudder, but am relieved to know Tris is not under arrest. The police cannot
have any evidence against him, or I feel sure they would have charged him by
now. I know how much pressure the inspector must be under to get a quick result
on these killings at Eastlyn.

‘And Sarah McGellan?’ I ask abruptly. ‘The
other victim. The one buried in the woods.’

He stares. ‘You think Tris knew her too?’

‘Is that possible?’

The A30 is not too busy, considering that the
summer season is nearly here. Connor glances automatically in his mirror before
overtaking the car ahead of us. Rain is starting to fall now, drenching the
hedgerows, pattering loudly on the car roof and the broken side window covered
in plastic.

‘Strictly between friends, yes, it is
possible
,’ he admits, reluctance in his
voice. ‘I didn’t tell the police this, so please don’t repeat it or you’ll get
me into trouble. But we went surfing up at Widemouth Bay a few times the week
Sarah McGellan disappeared, to catch the last big tides of the spring. I wasn’t
with him the whole time. How could I be? You know how Tris likes to go clubbing
after a day on the beach. I dropped him off at Newquay several times, and once
at least he didn’t come home until late the next morning. Maybe more than once,
I can’t recall.’

What is Connor suggesting? That his brother
spent that night in someone’s bed? Maybe even the dead woman’s bed?

It doesn’t sound like Tris. But then, how well
do I really know him?

I
went out clubbing with Tris and Connor when I came back from university last
summer, and with Hannah too. I remember Tris liked to dance with the
holidaymakers as well as the local girls, and even scored a few times at the
end of the night. Connor tended to hang back more those nights, talk to me and
Hannah, dance with us. It was always Tris who was on the prowl, never his
brother.

And
I recall how annoyed he was that Connor wanted to go home that night I met up
with them in the club in Newquay. Furious, actually.

 
‘Tris
could have met Sarah McGellan when he was surfing. The woman was a surf
instructor, she was always on the beaches. Or at Newquay, in one of the night
clubs there.’ He glances at me as though he can read my mind. ‘Hey, I know what
you’re thinking because I’ve thought it myself, many times since this started. But
Tris claims he didn’t know Sarah and I’d rather believe that. He’s my kid
brother.’

I know
what you’re thinking because I’ve thought it myself.

I feel cold. My brain is working slowly,
struggling to keep up with what he’s saying about the man who made love to me
last night.

‘But whoever killed those women has access to a
car or a van. They must have done.’

‘True.’

‘So it couldn’t be Tris. He doesn’t drive. He
doesn’t even have a licence.’

‘Also true. Though that’s never stopped him.’
Connor grins. ‘He rides that bloody quad bike all over the farm, and up and
down lanes like a maniac. You know that as well as anyone. And of course he’s
taken the van out without permission a few times.’

‘The van?’

‘My dad’s van. It’s untaxed, and a rusting old heap,
frankly. But I’ve not had the heart to get it scrapped yet.’ He stares out at
the dark clouds. ‘It’s as though, while the van’s still here, so is Dad.’

I remember his dad’s ancient van. But when I
visited Connor’s farm, there was no sign of a van in the yard, and the only mechanical
thing in that cobweb-festooned garage was a lawnmower.

‘I’ve not seen that van in over a year.’

‘I keep it parked down at the mill. You don’t
have to tax a vehicle that’s not kept on a public road.’

‘Dick Laney mentioned that place to me. He says
you’re thinking of renovating it?’

‘Oh, the house is totally derelict. Most of it
is boarded up. But I’m hoping to make a start on the renovations, at least, then
maybe sell it to some rich Londoner looking for a second home in Cornwall. Make
my fortune.’

‘Sounds
like a good idea.’

Connor
glances at me. ‘Perhaps you could come down and see it one day, help out with
the renovations. There used to be a rose garden at the back. It could do with a
make-over.’

‘I’m
not very green-fingered.’

‘Well,
you could just visit. Watch me work.’

I hear something behind his words, some kind of
emotional resonance that lingers in the silence like the after-echo of a guitar
string vibrating. I realise he means more than just a quick visit from a
friend. Alarm bells ring. He’s already asked me out a few times, and I know
he’s hoping for more than a kiss at the end of the night.

I
like Connor. He’s attractive and charming, and he reminds me of Tris. We have
history too. There are no secrets between us. But …

‘Yeah, maybe. When this term ends,’ I agree,
hoping he will not read too much into my acceptance, ‘I’ll bring some gardening
gloves and a trowel, dig up your weeds.’

‘That would be great.’ Connor smiles across at
me, and I can see he’s really happy with that. His fingers tap on the top of
the wheel. ‘And you’re right. It’s ridiculous to think Tris might have anything
to do with these dead women. He gets upset when the lambs are taken to the abattoir,
for God’s sake. No, if you ask me, the police are looking in completely the
wrong place.’

‘So who do you think killed them?’

‘I’m not a detective,’ Connor says sharply, seeming
surprised by my question. ‘I don’t have a clue who killed them. Do you?’

‘Not
really.’

‘You
see? It could be anyone.’

I
think of Reverend Clemo watching me and Tris out of the vicarage window, and his
strange looks whenever he sees me lately. ‘Even the vicar?’

He
laughs humourlessly. ‘Why not? Yes, it could be the vicar for all we know.
Though I suppose we can’t blame the poor sod for having a dead body in his cemetery.
More’s the pity.’

He signals to turn off the road and up the hill
towards the remote, grey stone village of Bolventor and Jamaica Inn. The rain
lets up long enough for us to cross the cobbled yard from the car park into the
quaint, old-fashioned bar area.

The
place is busy but not packed. The clouds have kept most people on the A30 perhaps,
in hope of better weather further into Cornwall. After we have each enjoyed a
plate of roast beef in gravy and all the trimmings from the Sunday carvery, Connor
goes to the bar to order two coffees and I wander about the old inn, studying
the pictures and posters on the wall. It’s an eighteen century coaching inn,
made famous by the novelist Daphne du Maurier, who set her story about Cornish
smugglers here and named the novel after the inn.

I
stop, staring down at the brass plaque set into the floor of the bar.
On this spot Joss Merlyn was murdered.
One
of the fictional characters from du Maurier’s novel. I think of my mother,
strangled in Eastlyn Woods, and walk back to our table.

‘Your coffee, my lady.’ Connor puts my cup and
saucer down, then slides into the seat opposite. He checks his phone, and
frowns. ‘Still nothing from Tris. Those bastards. They can’t have finished
talking to him yet.’

‘Taking
their time,’ I agree.

‘Hey,
don’t worry, everything’s going to be all right,’ he insists, laying his hand briefly
over mine, and his smile almost convinces me.

I
taste the coffee. It’s delicious, just the right blend of the smooth with the
rich. ‘So,’ I say, setting the cup back into the saucer, ‘what did you want to
talk to me about? Something about Tris, I presume, since you wanted to see me
alone.’

‘Yes,
I can’t dodge the bullet any longer, can I?’ He laughs uneasily. ‘Here’s the
thing. I want you to back off from Tris.’

I
stare. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I
know you two spent the night together. But even before that, I could see him
getting close to you. I mean, he and you have always been best friends, even
when we were at school. But now, it’s becoming something else. Something
deeper.’ He shrugs, looking up at me from his coffee. ‘I don’t want to see him
hurt, Ellie.’

‘And
I’m going to hurt him how?’

‘By
losing interest. By dropping him after a few dates. By going away.’ He holds my
astonished gaze. ‘That’s what you do, Ellie. You hook people in, you make them
care, and then you just … fuck off.’

‘I’ve
never
fucked off
,’ I repeat angrily.

‘Keep
it down.’ He glances round at the other people in the bar, but no one is
looking our way. He lowers his own voice. ‘You went to university.’

‘Don’t
most people?’

‘Not
me. I didn’t go to university. Neither did Tris. I know he wanted to go, yes,
but it was you who put that idea in his head. Before you went away to get a
degree, he was happy to be a farmer his whole life, like our dad. But after you
went away, it was always,
I could go to
college too, I could get a degree.
’ He shakes his head. ‘But of course it
was impossible. There was always the farm to think about, and then Dad got
sick. We couldn’t spare the money, and I certainly couldn’t spare Tris. In the
end, we had to have a serious talk about it, and I showed him our accounts.
Then he stopped talking about university. But I could see that it was eating
away at him. The resentment of having to stay behind. Of losing you.’

‘Tris
hasn’t lost me,’ I say, bewildered. ‘I’ve come back to Eastlyn, haven’t I?’

‘But
for how long?’

‘Maybe
forever, I don’t know. My dad’s here – ’

‘And
when he dies?’

I
shake my head in disbelief. ‘Seriously, what kind of question is that? This is
out of order, Connor.’ I stand up. ‘I think you should drive me back home.’

‘Sit
down, I haven’t finished.’

I
hate the tension in his voice. But people are staring openly now, and that
makes me uncomfortable. I’ve had people stare at me most of my life, and it
never gets easier.

Besides,
I don’t think he’s said what he came here to say yet.

I
sit down again. But I’m not happy, and I don’t care if he knows it. My tone is
aggressive. ‘So you want me to stop seeing Tris?’

Connor
nods, leaning back in his seat, his gaze steady on my face. ‘I know you probably
think me a monster for asking this, but that’s only because you don’t know Tris
like I do. He’s not the man you think he is.’

‘In
what way?’

‘You
think he’s strong. Hardy. Like one of these plants that will grow anywhere,
however cold the wind blows.’ He shakes his head. ‘He’s not. He’s fragile. He’s
damaged goods, Ellie, and this game you’re playing is going to break him. I
know the signs, I can see where this is leading.’

‘I’m
not playing any game.’

‘He
told me about the photograph.’ He leans forward abruptly. ‘About you breaking
into our house.’

Fuck.

I
can feel heat in my cheeks. ‘I’m sorry about that. I can explain.’

‘You
don’t need to. You fancy yourself as a detective. Looking for clues, the girl
in the deerstalker, one step ahead of the police. They searched the farm this
morning, did I mention that? The whole house, attic to cellar, and all the
outbuildings and fields. Yes, you may well stare. But that’s the price of being
friends with Eleanor Blackwood.’

‘That’s
hardly fair,’ I exclaim, shocked by what I’m hearing, but he is no longer
listening.

‘They
didn’t find anything, of course, because there is nothing to find there. But
you are going to back off now. No more lying and trying to get close to Tris.
Because I know what your agenda is with him. And it’s not a relationship.’ He
pushes his coffee cup away, his voice sinking to a whisper. ‘When he was in the
hospice, dying of cancer, I promised my dad that I would look after Tris when
he had gone. And I plan on keeping that promise, whatever it takes.’

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.