CHAPTER FOUR
The slam of the ambulance door made Poppy jump. The arm that had held her steady for the last however long tightened around her.
He was a big man, a bit younger than Jonathan. He looked down at her with kind eyes and rubbed her arm, as if trying to get her circulation going, probably in the hope that she wouldn’t notice his hands were shaking too.
Three police cars and a strip of blue and white striped tape were fending off the gathering crowd of gawping festival-goers. Police wandered around like out-of-place shadows – combing the pebbled beach. Her gaze followed one of them to a lumpy mound of damp red blankets; the only flash of colour in the now grey morning. It looked so innocuous; junk that had washed ashore. What lay beneath was anything but.
She shivered, and not for the first time since she’d been dragged from the cold clutches of the lake, she thought she might throw up. Poppy gripped her own red blanket to her chest. It did nothing to fend off the cold, shuddering nausea.
She stared at the blanket-covered body, hardly able to believe it was true.
The guy who’d helped her drag the dead weight from the lake had tried resuscitation. He’d pounded her chest and done all the things you see people doing on the TV. But she must have been in the water too long.
The lake had won.
The sound of raised voices recalled her attention to the crowd of onlookers. A woman was arguing with the police. She pushed past them and ran to Poppy.
Mum fell onto her knees. ‘Pops,’ she murmured, grasping Poppy’s face.
Mum’s hands were warm and soft against Poppy’s cheeks, but she could see the memories of the last time she’d been dragged from a lake, swimming like ghosts in her mother’s bloodshot eyes.
Mum cocked her face to the side, silently asking if she was OK.
Poppy nodded and forced herself to smile. ‘Don’t fuss, I’m fine.’
‘She wouldn’t go with the ambulance,’ said the guy beside her. ‘She’s freezing though. Could do with getting changed.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much for...’ Mum’s words trailed away. She shrugged and pulled Poppy into a hug. She could feel Mum’s shuddering tears. They reverberated through her like shockwaves.
‘Are you Poppy?’ another voice asked.
Mum let her go, sat back, and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
It was a guy in grubby denim jacket and wrinkled shirt. He was a bit on the podgy side and needed a shave.
He held up an ID badge. ‘DS Grant, Cumbria Police.’
‘Any news on what happened to the other girl?’ Mum asked.
There was a silence. ‘Looks like she’d been dead for a while,’ DS Grant said.
The Other Girl. It sounded so impersonal. So wrong.
‘Beth,’ Poppy forced out. The girl who she’d shared her biggest secret with. ‘Her name was Beth.’
‘You knew her?’ It was her rescuer who asked. He loosened his hold on her and turned to face her.
His khaki shirt still bore the tidemark of the lake. She remembered his arms pulling her out, holding her while she coughed up sour-tasting water. He’d stayed with her while the paramedics had fussed over her.
His hair colour wasn’t so much different from Poppy’s – the kind of blond that could have been red if it had only tried a bit harder. And his face, though serious, had a kind of softness about it that reminded her of Dad. His steady gaze held hers, encouraging her to speak.
‘We weren’t friends or anything. I met her last night. She was hanging around on the bluff.’
‘Do you know what happened?’ Mum asked.
Poppy shook her head.
‘I’m going to need to take a statement,’ DS Grant said.
Mum sprang to her feet. ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘Not really.’
‘She’s in shock and she’s freezing. She needs to get out of her wet clothes. Christ, she’s only sixteen, and she’s just pulled a dead body from the lake, so why don’t you give her some space?’ Oh God, Mum had gone into six-armed warrior-goddess mode.
‘OK,’ the policeman said, taking a step back. ‘Can you at least tell me where you’ll be?’
Jonathan was slumped in a red and white striped deckchair in front of a rusted caravan painted with peace signs and demo slogans. When he saw Poppy, he leapt out of the sagging seat and hugged her so tightly the air was forced out of her lungs.
‘What a terrible thing to happen. I’m so sorry you had to find her,’ Jonathan said.
Poppy’s head was so firmly pressed to his chest that his voice sounded distorted, like she was underwater. His heart pounded against her cheek just like Mum’s had done. She pulled away from him as two policemen stepped out of the caravan. She glanced at Mum, who shrugged hopelessly.
At that moment, Bob appeared, filling the entire doorway of the caravan, looking like King Arthur with his red and black High Druid robes and flowing white hair and beard. He winked at her.
She grinned, flung her arms around Bob’s thick waist and gave him a good squeeze.
‘How are you feeling, our Poppy?’ Bob asked, enfolding her.
‘She’s in shock, but won’t admit it,’ Mum said.
Bob tightened his grip. ‘Not every day you find a dead body.’ His big hand brushed the damp hair away from her forehead.
‘I wish you’d put this blanket around you, you’re going to catch your death.’
Poppy eased herself out of Bob’s grip. Mum’s face was grey and tired. Her arms were wrapped around herself and the blanket as if it was she who’d had a good dunking in the lake.
‘I’m OK, Mum,’ Poppy tried to say, as convincingly as possible. Mum’s lips made a valiant attempt at a smile, but her eyes let her down on the follow-through.
‘I think we all need a good strong cup of tea,’ Bob said.
‘I’ll make it,’ Poppy volunteered, desperate for a minute alone to get her head straight.
Mum shook her head. ‘No. I’ll do it.’ Jonathan shot a concerned glance Poppy’s way then followed Mum into the gloom of the caravan.
As soon as she was out of Mum’s sight, Poppy felt the life go out of her like a rushing breath of wind. The bright paint of the caravan swayed in front of the dark spears of the fir trees and her knees sagged.
A hand grabbed her elbow. ‘Come and sit down, lass,’ Bob said.
Poppy sank into one of the deckchairs and squinted up through the pale morning sun at the concerned face staring back. She tried to ignore the sensation that a time bomb was ticking in her throat.
‘I’m all right. I’m just tired. It’s Mum who’s freaking out!’
Bob snorted and collapsed into the other deckchair. She could hear Mum talking quietly to Jonathan, but not quietly enough.
‘The thought of her being lifted out of the water like that. When they said a girl had died – it brought it all back. I thought I’d lost her this time.’
Bob caught her eye, his lips pressed together in what looked like a
hang-in-there-kid!
She felt sick and cold. Her eyes stung, but she wouldn’t cry. That would only worry Mum more.
Police had cordoned off the lake and were wandering around the field in their luminous high-vis jackets. Three little kids kicked a ball about between the tents and yurts, their giggles the only music the gathering seemed able to produce.
Mum reappeared, followed by Jonathan, and handed Poppy a mug of tea. The heat nipped at her still-frozen fingers. She pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands and used them like an oven mitt. Feeling Mum’s gaze on her again, she straightened up and forced herself to smile.
‘They said you knew the girl,’ Bob said.
For a second she saw Beth’s face – the passion burning in her eyes. Then the fire faded and her face grew pale and waxy, dead and lifeless. She shivered and the image dissipated like ripples on water.
‘Not really. I just met her last night. She was really nice.’
Bob shook his head. ‘It’s a flaming tragedy.’
‘So, what’ll happen? Will the festival go on?’ Jonathan asked.
‘That’s what the fuzz were here about. I’ll call the council together later this afternoon. But I reckon it’ll be a good excuse to shut us down.’
‘They won’t do that, surely!’ Mum said. She was thinking about the handfasting. Poppy got it – it was important to both of them. But a little niggling part of her was annoyed that they could even think about it. Beth was dead. It didn’t seem right that life should go on like nothing had happened.
Before she could say anything, she was interrupted by a guy who couldn’t have looked more out of place if he was dressed in a pink tutu and fairy wings.
‘Pete! How are you, boy? I hear you’re the hero of the hour!’ Bob boomed.
Poppy’s rescuer had changed into a blue check shirt, jeans and heavy-duty wellington boots. He looked even more out of place than Poppy did alongside all the hippy Pagan chic.
Pete shrugged and his cheeks glowed pink. ‘Sally sent me down to ask after the lass. She’d come herself but she’s about fit to burst.’
‘Not long to go. When’s she due?’ Bob asked.
‘Any day now.’ Pete smiled at Poppy. ‘Are you feeling any better?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘No problem. Sally said to tell you that you’re welcome up at the house whenever you like. I think she’d like the company, tell you the truth.’
‘Tell her I’ll be up to see her later,’ Bob said. ‘I’ll bring her some raspberry leaf tea, that’s supposed to help the baby along.’
‘She’d like that.’
‘Nice boy,’ Bob said, as the farmer ambled away. ‘His mum was a good friend to us when we first started John Barleycorn – letting us meet on their land. Had a lot of sympathy for the old ways. His father, on the other hand, was an old bastard, gods rest him.’
CHAPTER FIVE
There was a clatter on the caravan door.
‘I’m looking for Poppy Sinclair,’ a man’s voice called.
‘In here,’ Bob said.
A man almost as big as Bob in a worn-out brown suit squeezed through the caravan door. ‘DCI Hadley,’ he said, in a thick local accent. ‘This is DS Grant.’
The detective who’d been at the lake followed him in, ducking like he might hit his head even though he was a good foot shorter than his boss. Oh great, they were going to want her to talk about what happened and she really didn’t know whether she could. She folded her arms over her stomach, hoping she could keep her internal organs from sloshing around.
The two policemen stood there, hunched like bald-headed eagles. Bob got up and motioned for them to take his place around the fold-down Formica table where Mum had forced gallons of chamomile tea down her, like
that
was going to help.
‘Sit down, gentlemen. I’ll make myself scarce.’ Bob gave Poppy a quick reassuring wink before disappearing out of the door of the caravan.
The two policemen squeezed themselves onto the bench. Their jackets bulged over the edge of the fold-down table, and, in the case of the older guy, half his stomach as well. He rested his elbows on the surface – there was no room for them to go anywhere else – and sighed.
A shaft of light bled through the burgundy-coloured curtains, highlighting a column of swirling dust particles between them. The table was buried in stacks of books covering everything from ley lines to herbal medicine. One was entitled
The Peat Bog Bodies of the Northern Europe – Murder or Ritual Killing?
‘
Anti-Druid propaganda!
’
she heard Bob growl in her head. She watched the old detective’s eyes flit over the titles.
He grunted and then looked directly at her. ‘You’re Poppy?’
She nodded.
‘And you are?’ he asked, his gaze sliding to Mum.
‘I’m Meg Donoghue. Poppy’s mum.’
‘Sounds like you’ve had a bit of a shock, Poppy, but would you mind telling us what happened this mornin’?’
She didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to see lifeless eyes staring at her. She grabbed her mug of chamomile and wrapped her hands around it, trying to soak up the last of the warmth.
‘What made you go out to the lake? Must’ve been quite early.’
‘It was about half five. I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d go for a walk,’ she said, realising how weird that sounded. She’d watched enough police dramas to know that the person who found the body was always a suspect. Wait until they heard about last night; that really would put her in the frame.
The man smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. When he’d walked in the door she’d thought he looked like a farmer dressed up to go to a funeral. Now she was a murder suspect, he looked more like a sly old fox who’d had one too many full English breakfasts. ‘I could never sleep in tents neither. Thought of all them creepy-crawlies.’ He shuddered. ‘And you headed straight for the lake, did you?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Did you see her right away?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘Didn’t know what it was at first. Just thought it was a shadow or something.’
‘Is that when you called for someone?’
‘I’m not sure. I think so. I don’t remember. I tried to get her out but she was too heavy.’ She could feel Beth’s body limp in her arms. Except she hadn’t been limp. That was why she couldn’t turn her properly. She’d already started to freeze up. Did that mean she’d been dead for a while? ‘Then Pete – the guy from the farm – and another guy helped.’
‘Did you know her?’
Poppy nodded. ‘I mean, no, I didn’t
know
her. But I met her last night. We talked for a bit. Beth. She didn’t tell me her surname.’
‘What did you talk about?’
She shrugged.
‘It would really help us to know what she was doing here, Poppy. She wasn’t registered as a participant,’ the younger detective said.
‘She was looking for someone. A friend. She thought she might be here but I don’t think she was.’
‘What was her friend’s name?’
Poppy tried to remember but the name was gone. She screwed her eyes shut, racking her brain. She saw Beth smiling up at the stars. Remembered the way she’d looked at her from under the long black lashes.
Flirting.
Beth had been flirting with her, it’s just she’d been too bloody thick to notice until...
‘Poppy?’
‘I don’t remember!’ she blurted.
Mum squeezed her arm. ‘It’s OK, Poppy. I’m sure the policemen understand.’
The Old Fox exchanged a glance with his sidekick. ‘What did she say about this friend?’
‘She was in love with her.’
‘
Her?
’ the younger guy repeated.
Poppy could hear the titillation in his voice. Was that what Beth had had to put up with all her life? Sad blokes thinking that they were the one who could turn her, or hell, they wouldn’t mind watching. ‘Yes,
her
. Have you got a problem with that?’ She glared at the detective.
He shrank back into the bench and said nothing.
‘And yesterday was the first time you’d met her?’ the old guy asked.
‘Yes.’
He nodded. ‘Right you are. We’ll need a formal statement, of course, but maybe we’ll leave that until later. Until you’ve had time to think. Will you still be here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mum said. ‘I think maybe we ought to go home.’
‘No, Mum! Your handfasting. I’ll be here.’
‘Mrs Sinclair—’
‘—Donoghue,’ Mum corrected.
‘Sorry. Mrs Donoghue, maybe you could come outside and give one of my constables your contact details, just in case you decide to take Poppy home.’
‘Of course. Will you be OK?’
Poppy nodded and got up to let Mum out.
DS Grant watched his boss leave with Mum, but didn’t move. He waited until they were out of the door before sitting forward and leaning his elbows on the table, just as his boss had done. It had been planned. Now the real questioning would start.
‘Poppy, is there anything else you can tell us?’ he asked.
Hold on, there was something. There had been someone there before she got there. ‘There was someone up on the bluff. This morning. At first I thought it might be Beth, but it wasn’t. It was a bloke staring out at the lake.’
DS Grant scribbled something down in a notebook. ‘You can’t give me a better description?’
‘No; it was sunrise. Just a shadow really.’
He pressed his lips together and nodded. ‘You’d definitely never met Beth before?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Then how did you end up talking to her?’
‘I was looking for somewhere quiet. I went up the bluff and Beth was already there. We just got talking.’
‘Did you and she...’
‘What?’
He smiled coyly. ‘Hit it off?’
‘We got on, if that’s what you mean.’
He shuffled in his seat. ‘Look, there’s a young woman dead and we need to ask uncomfortable questions.’
Poppy couldn’t help rolling her eyes. Even so, she felt her cheeks redden. ‘I didn’t fancy her, if that’s what you’re trying to ask.’
He nodded. ‘What did you think of her?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Was she happy…depressed?’
‘You mean depressed enough to kill herself? No. I don’t think so.’
‘Had she been drinking?’
‘Yeah, but she wasn’t drunk. Certainly not drunk enough to drown in shallow water.’
‘What was she drinking?’
Poppy saw the glow of the sunset glint gold in the bottle. She blinked the image away. ‘Jack Daniel’s.’
‘And how much had she had?’
‘I’m not sure. No more than half a bottle.’
He bit his rubbery bottom lip and nodded seriously, like he’d worked it all out. ‘That’s a lot of Jack Daniel’s.’
‘She wasn’t drunk. I’d have noticed.’
‘I’ve seen it before. One minute they’re as sober as a judge, the next they’re off their faces. It’s sad, but it happens a lot around here. It’s a nice evening, they think they’ll have a little dip in the lake to cool down. But they’re drunk, they slip over, and that’s it.’
Poppy watched the guy tell himself the completely made-up story of Beth’s death.
‘It didn’t happen like that!’
‘How do you know?’
‘She was murdered!’
For the first time, the detective met her gaze. Ambition glinted in his sharp blue eyes.
‘What makes you say that?’