Girl Number One: A Gripping Psychological Thriller (9 page)

By the time we
reach the beach resort of Newquay, the sun is much lower in the sky and the air
is distinctly cooler. But there’s still another hour or two of daylight left,
and people are still wandering about in beach shorts and flip-flops.

The seaside town is crowded, even though the
school holidays haven’t started. Denzil drives slowly through the narrow streets,
occasionally sounding his horn or waving at a friend on the pavement or in a
shop doorway. People grin when they see who it is, and a few young men shuffle
over to grasp his hand and chat for a few minutes while we hold up traffic.

Denzil introduces me casually as, ‘Eleanor, a
friend of mine,’ then we drive on, getting closer to the beach.

He’s turned down the CD player but music is
pounding out of the bars along the main street, so I’m still tapping my foot. The
setting sun is in my eyes as we turn downhill, blinding me. It’s a resort town
but most of the tourist shops are only just closing up, owners dragging signs
inside and lowering metal grills over their windows.

We reach the beach front. The air is fresh and
salty, and I can smell fish and chips from one of the cliff top bars above us. Heads
turn as the car slows, people staring at Denzil. There’s a barbecue already set
up a short way between the cliffs and the outgoing tide, I can see it smoking
furiously. I squint into golden light; there’s a group of teenagers messing
about on the sands, silhouetted against the setting sun, chasing each other and
shrieking with laughter.

I check my lipstick in the pull-down mirror. I’m
probably a bit old for the beach scene. I just hope none of the sixth formers
from school hang out here at the weekends. That would be embarrassing.

Denzil finds a spot to park. ‘Come on, we’ll
stay a couple of hours, then move on to the club where I’m gigging.’ His gaze
is appreciative as I hop out of the jeep. ‘You look gorgeous, by the way. I
love that dress.’

I focus on what he just said. ‘You’re deejaying
tonight?’

He looks at me blankly. ‘Didn’t I tell you? I
got a call after we spoke at the garden centre. A friend of mine is sick
tonight, so I’m standing in for him. You don’t mind, do you?’

I usually love to watch Denzil doing his deejay
thing with the decks. But part of me is still feeling a bit fragile, so I don’t
like the idea of being left on my own for hours while he’s working.

‘When will you finish?’

‘No idea,’ he murmurs, and slips an arm about
my waist, pulling me close. I let him, half-seduced by the sheer charisma of the
man, though he annoys the hell out of me at the same time. He nuzzles into my
hair. ‘You’ll be fine. With your legs, everyone will want to dance with you. Mmm,
I love that perfume too. What is it?’

‘Something I got for Christmas.’

‘From
Hannah?’

‘Connor,
actually.’

He
raises his eyebrows as we start walking. ‘Connor. Should I be jealous?’

‘I
thought this was just a pity date.’

He
sucks in his breath, then grins appreciatively. ‘Ouch, little cat. Yeah, I’m
not in the market for anything long-term. So if you and Connor are an item … ’

‘We’re
not.’

‘Whatever
you say, gorgeous.’ He shrugs, but tightens his arm round my waist. ‘Still,
just because I’m not after the whole meal, that doesn’t mean I don’t want a
taste.’

I
throw back my head. ‘Oh my God, corny.’

‘Was
it?’

‘Horribly.’

He
laughs too. ‘Sorry.’

We’re crossing the sands towards his friends. The
blokes look okay, standing about the makeshift barbecue with beers, most in
scruffy jeans and shorts. The girls look like supermodels, tall and skinny in
tiny shorts and bikini tops, their hair long and impossibly straight. None of
them are older than twenty, by my estimate. One of them turns and stares at me,
hands on hips, her make-up immaculate, face frozen in an expression of
disbelief.

I feel uncomfortable at once and disentangle
myself from his arm. ‘Who’s that?’

Denzil makes an irritated noise under his
breath. ‘It’s nobody. Relax, enjoy the party. You’ll be fine.’

An ex-girlfriend, I guess. I accept a can of
beer – warm, unfortunately, but still drinkable – and sit on a rock
near the barbecue, carefully not looking in her direction. Someone turns the
music up. I drag my phone out of my bag. Two missed calls, three texts. Two
from Hannah, one from Tris.

I read the two texts from Hannah first.

The
police rang. Wouldn’t leave a message. Hx

Text number two is simpler:

PS. Tris
just called, looking for you. Hope it was okay to tell him.

I frown, perplexed, and thumb back to the main
menu. The text from Tris himself is even more troubling.

Hannah
says you are in Newquay tonight? Connor wanted to go clubbing so we’re both
here too. If you’re going to Tempest, maybe we could hook up. T.

What
is he playing at? Tris has barely looked at me for months, he and Connor have
been so focused on keeping the farm together since their dad died. Now suddenly
he’s interested in meeting up with me at a club? I want to read something into
that, but dare not.

Denzil
is right. I don’t need any more complications right now. And Tris would be a
massive complication.

‘Denzil?’

He’s talking to the blonde who glared at me,
but turns at my call, cigarette in hand, looking vaguely guilty. ‘Yeah, what’s
up?’

‘Are we going to Tempest tonight?’

He nods. ‘That’s the club where I’m gigging.
Why?’

‘I might meet some friends there, that’s all.’

‘Cool, good idea.’ He turns back to the blonde,
who is still staring at me through narrowed blue eyes, and continues with what
he was saying.

I feel a bit embarrassed by his brush-off, then
tell myself to get over it. What was I expecting? I like Denzil, and I’m
interested in him sexually, but we’re not dating. Besides, we didn’t come here
together as boyfriend-girlfriend. Like he told me earlier, he sees this night out
as a favour for a friend. Not a date. Whatever might happen at the end of it.

I text Tris back,
Maybe see you at Tempest
, then turn off my phone. I don’t want to
appear needy.

Jumping
down from my rock, I decide to work the party. Better than sitting on my own
for the next hour. I get into a conversation about films with one of Denzil’s
friends; he’s a little younger than me, not bad-looking, with a shaved head. Some
of the others come over later with a bowl of hot spicy sausages from the
barbecue and we all help ourselves. After a few beers, I start to relax, and
even agree to dance with one of the guys. It’s not turning out to be such a bad
night. At least none of them seem to know anything about the body in the woods.

It’s nearly nine
o’clock by the time we leave the beach party and move on to the club where
Denzil is working that night. He’s the guest deejay, which means I get in for
free.

‘Remember,’
Denzil says in my ear as he shows me to a much-coveted seat near his deejay platform,
‘you’re here to shake it loose. So enjoy yourself tonight, understand?’

‘I’ll
try.’

He
sends over a tall, orange-red house cocktail with an umbrella and sparkler,
then proceeds to ignore me for the next hour. But I don’t really care. I’m out of
the house and anonymous, that’s what matters.

Sometimes
I get up to dance, leaving my cocktail unattended at my seat, sometimes I keep
my eyes on Denzil on his high platform. It’s not a bad way to spend an evening.
New drinks arrive at intervals, and Denzil waves a hand as the bartender points
him out, winking across at me.

I watch women drooling over him, all of them
beautiful and exquisitely made-up, wearing tiny outfits in green and pink neon,
armed with clubbers’ pom-poms and glow-sticks, and I can see why he has
hang-ups about dating. As a deejay, Denzil is constantly surrounded by all
these gorgeous, adoring women; why would he want to tie himself down to one
girlfriend when he could have a different lover every night?

Halfway through the evening, I weave to the
ladies through a heaving pack of dancers, the beat thumping through every bone
and nerve, unsteady on my feet, pleasantly drunk.

I see a familiar dark head ahead of me. ‘Tris?’

But there’s too much noise, he can’t hear me.
The heaving crowd shifts and merges, and he vanishes.

‘Tris?’

The
strobe comes on. Everything goes weird. Heads moving, arms whirling, lights
flashing, and none of the faces familiar. I start to feel sick. Stumbling, I
turn back towards the ladies’ toilets, then catch another tantalising glimpse of
Tris under the central mirror ball. I stop, swaying slightly, and scan the
dancers for his face. Again, there’s no sign of him in the crowd. One minute
he’s there, the next he’s gone. It’s almost like Tris is playing a game with
me, and I’m losing.

I
turn, staring all around, confused and frowning. Where the hell did he go?

‘Hey, looking for me?’

I spin round at the voice in my ear, over-balancing.
Tris catches me by the shoulders, looking surprised. ‘You drunk?’

‘Cocktails, that’s all.’

‘Where’s
Denzil?’

I
point out Denzil on his high platform, tending to the decks with his headphones
on. ‘He thinks I should let my hair down, forget about the … the body.’

‘Hang on.’ Tris pulls out his phone, which is lit
up with an incoming call. He puts it to his ear, then nods. ‘Yeah, okay. Five
minutes, out the front.’ He ends the call, looking at me soberly. Like only
Tris can do in the middle of a packed night club. ‘That was Connor. He wants to
go home.’

‘But we only just hooked up.’

‘You know Connor, he’s a law unto himself. And
he hates Newquay. I don’t know why he insisted on us going out tonight. I’ve
been dancing, but he’s barely moved from the bar all evening, miserable sod.’

Still
missing his dad, probably. I say nothing. Everyone deals with grief in their
own way.

‘Well,
I’d better go and find him,’ he says, then bends to kiss my cheek. His voice is
husky in my ear. ‘Take care of yourself.’

When
Tris turns away, I grab his elbow. ‘Stay for one dance,’ I tell him, shouting
to be heard above the music.

He
raises his eyebrows. ‘With you?’

‘Why
not?’

‘In
your state?’

‘I
told you, I’m not drunk. Just … tipsy. I can manage a dance.’

He
half-grins, just a twitch of his mouth. ‘I can’t, sorry. Connor’s waiting outside
and I don’t want him to drive off without me. I’ve got no transport. It’s a
long way over the moors.’

‘Denzil
will drive you home.’

He
looks angry suddenly. ‘What, you, me and Denzil in his jeep? I’m sure that’ll
be cosy.’

I
shake my head. ‘We’re not dating.’

‘You
must think I’m stupid.’

‘Maybe you are,’ I mutter, not meaning for him
to hear, but he gets the point anyway.

‘So I’m Public Enemy Number One now? What exactly
am I supposed to have done? Or is this the drink talking?’

‘Nothing, forget it.’

He bends close, his eyes meeting mine. I try
not to look at his mouth. But the rest is even more alluring. His chin is rough
with stubble, his shirt unbuttoned just below the neck, some of his chest on
show. ‘Look, Ellie, why not come home with me and Connor? I’m worried about
you. This place won’t close for hours and Denzil can’t be trusted to get you
home safely. He can’t be trusted, full stop.’

‘I don’t need you to worry about me. I don’t need
anyone.’ My mouth is dry, and my head is starting to spin. Too many cocktails. ‘Anyway,
Denzil’s not like that. You’ve got him all wrong. He would never abandon me.’

Tris glances down at his phone again. The
screen is lit up with a new incoming call. He cancels it without answering, then
pushes the phone down inside the front pocket of his jeans.

‘You
want to take your chances with Denzil, that’s fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn
you.’

‘Whatever. See you around.’

‘Goodbye,
Ellie.’

Tris leans forward and kisses me roughly on the
mouth, holding my face with both hands. Then he turns away and the crowd
swallows him.

I
regret it at once.

‘Tris?’

I take a few steps after him and the room starts
to spin horribly. I stop, then stumble on stubbornly, unsure of my direction.
Time moves slowly. A while later, I find myself sagging against the wall near
the women’s toilets, drawing a few amused glances from girls queuing in the
doorway.

Staring
across the dance floor, I see dozens of dark heads that could be Tris. But none
of them are Tris, of course, because he’s gone. Gone home across the moors with
Connor beside him. I could weep, or smash something. I remember his hands
holding my face as he kissed me. I can still feel the imprint of his fingers on
each cheek.